


All Was Golden in the Sky

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-05-30 19:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 247,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Magic is dying.Emma knows it. She can feel it, the emptiness rattling around in her, like it’s trying to make sure she disappears as well. What she doesn’t know is what to do about it, because, suddenly, there is a man in Storybrooke claiming she’s the Savior and a seeress certain a prophecy promises the same and the last thing she expects is for her minimal amount of lingering power to pull her away.To New York City.And another oddly familiar man with blue eyes and a smile that sinks under her skin and makes magic bloom in the air around her. Things are about to get interesting.





	1. Chapter 1

The cat won’t stop staring at her. 

Emma glances over her shoulder, steps slowing to a crawl and, yup, there it is. The goddamn cat. Staring at her. Still. 

She sighs, rolling her whole head and nearly dropping the small pile of things clutched in her arms. The cat blinks. 

Honestly. 

It’s absurd. 

“What is your deal?” she snaps, well aware that she won’t get a response. Cats are notoriously picky about who they talk to. She assumes it has something to do with their collective frustration over the world’s perception of black cats. 

And, maybe, like ancient Egypt. 

“Honestly,” Emma continues. She can’t wave her hands like she wants to, laden down as she is with several plastic containers and a half gallon of milk and, on second thought, maybe that’s why the cat is following her. 

It’s not, but it’s nice to pretend. 

Because animals always know. Mary Margaret has several working theories about that, but she claims she still has to conduct more interviews and if Mary Margaret were there, Emma is certain, she’d be able to get the cat to leave her alone. 

As it is, Mary Margaret is several thousand miles away trying to find a solution to the problem that has led Emma to this store with its copious amount of Little Debbie snacks in the middle of the night. She can’t sleep. Her brain is too wired and her nerves are drifting dangerously close to fried and she’s got no idea what to do next. 

So, the reasonable thing, naturally, is to buy as many Zebra Cakes as she possibly can. 

“C’mon,” Emma mumbles, kicking her foot out because the cat is now sitting in the middle of the aisle, staring at her with the kind of authority that makes her believe that maybe it’s the cat who actually owns the store. “You’ve got to move. Or I’m just going to teleport out of here and then Ruby will absolutely kill me.”

The cat blinks again. 

Emma groans, gritting her teeth and it’s an empty threat. She knows it. The cat knows it. The guy behind the counter probably knows it. 

She must reek with it, a distinct lack of _anything_ that’s the crux of her problem and the problem in Storybrooke and she’s got to figure something out. That’s why she and Ruby came to New York, after all. 

The seeress had been very specific about that. 

Emma wasn’t all that inclined to believe in prophecy, even after growing up in a town like Storybrooke with a werewolf for a neighbor and a best friend who could very easily commune with the cat still blocking her exit, but it was difficult to ignore when said prophecy included her.

Explicitly. 

_A Savior of old,_

_With future foretold,_

_A key and a spark,_

_The future of magic and light in the dark,_

_A Swan and a Knight,_

_Preparing to fight._

Emma hates that it rhymed. She’s not surprised it rhymed. Magic, she’s come to learn, has a habit of being equal parts wonderful and the single most frustrating thing in the entire world. 

She assumes it’s some kind of balance – to the force or the state of the entire universe or whatever, but it’s also kind of annoying, particularly when magic, it seems, is disappearing. It started out slow, certain spells harder to cast than others and potions that brewed just shy of perfect. But then Mary Margaret couldn’t talk to the bird she’d been having daily conversations with every morning for the last several years. 

And David hadn’t been able to blink from one side of the town to the other when Emma called him about a break-in at the tackle shop near the docks. 

Elsa’s ice magic was now more like...slush magic and Ruby’s most recent transformation hadn’t accounted to much more than her needing to buy two tubs of wax and an extra bag of razors. 

It happened to everyone. 

Even Emma. 

And it’s kind of messing with her head. And sleeping patterns. Because she’s sleeping in a new bed in an apartment she can’t quite breathe in, several thousand miles away from the only home she’s ever known, desperately trying to find some sort of spark to make magic right again. 

And it hadn’t entirely been her choice. 

The seeress hadn’t been specific on the location of that aforementioned spark, but Emma hadn’t had much time to consider it when the first wave of magic crested over the Storybrooke town line. The suddenness of it all made Emma’s stomach fly into her throat, an attack and a push of power and the man standing there, with smoke swirling at his feet didn’t walk evenly into town. There was a slight limp to his steps, hands resting on a cane that was far too ornate, but the curl of his lips sent a chill down Emma’s spine. He was looking for her. 

“I want the Savior,” he’d said, a confidence to his voice that made it clear he was quite used to getting his way. “Now.”

It hadn’t really played out that way. 

It had been a complete and goddamn disaster, honestly. 

There’d been flashes of light and several different explosions, the arrows from Granny’s crossbow whirring past Emma and she’d gasped as soon as Ruby’s fingers curled around her wrist. That had been disappointing. 

“C’mon,” she growled, tugging and yanking and Mary Margaret nodded encouragingly as soon as she realized what was going on. 

“You’ve got to go, Emma. We’re not going to be able to protect you here.”

Emma had tried to argue. She’d yelled and cursed and there had been more than a few tears on her cheeks, but she’d also known Mary Margaret was right and who was she to argue with prophecy? The Savior, apparently. 

“Oh, Savior! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Shit, who does this guy think he is?” Ruby grumbled, a flash of a smile that felt distinctly out of place when the building behind them seemed dangerously close to collapsing. “We’ve got to go, Em. Now.”

Emma nodded dumbly, racking her brain for a place and somewhere safe and she’d never been anywhere, hadn’t left the confines of Storybrooke since she’d entered the confines of Storybrooke and--

Something slammed into David’s chest, a burst of power and flash of darkness and Emma gasped again. Mary Margaret whimpered. 

“Now, Em,” Ruby repeated, squeezing her hand and Emma blinked. 

They’d landed in the middle of New York City. On the corner of Bowery and Broome Street. Ruby had made a joke about witches. 

And now, a week later, Emma hasn’t heard a single word out of Storybrooke, no update on David or the state of Mary Margaret’s tear ducts and she’s got absolutely, positively no idea how to save magic. 

She refuses to consider the idea that the empty apartment in the building they just happened to land in front of is some kind of sign. 

“Are you going to buy those?”

Emma jumps at the voice, only a little surprised that it isn’t coming from the cat. Who has not moved an inch. She exhales, lungs aching with the force of it, and her tongue flashes between her lips when she realizes her mouth has been hanging open. 

A Zebra Cake falls on the ground. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma stammers, nodding for emphasis and it’s an absolutely absurd look. “Of course, I um...sorry.”

The bodega owner hums, clearly unimpressed with her at whatever time it might be. Some point when people don’t normally buy Zebra Cakes, she’s sure. 

He doesn’t scan them, _it’s a bodega_ , but he does give her a quizzical look when he realizes just how many she’s buying and Emma chews on her lip. She’s still having a difficult time breathing. 

“$15.72.”  
  
“What?” Emma balks. “Honestly?”  
  
He hums again, a sound that’s starting to grate on Emma’s ears. “Cash only.”  
  
“Oh my God.” She huffs, a clack of teeth and she’s seen cash before, but she doesn’t often has to use it and Storybrooke had always been bigger on bartering. It’s easy to pay for things when you can offer someone a potion in return. 

It takes her a few moments to unfold the bills crumpled in her palm, the owner eyeing her cautiously. “Alright, alright,” Emma mumbles, mostly to herself as she tries to add up coins. “Is that right?”

He blinks. 

It looks suspiciously similar to the cat. 

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Ok.” Emma nods towards the bag he hasn’t given her yet. “Can have that, then?”

“Are you drunk?”  
  
Her laugh is definitely not the correct response, but she can’t remember the last time she’s actually gotten some rest and her pulse seems to be running at a constant state of _overwhelmed_ and Emma hasn’t been able to do any magic since she teleported them. 

She hasn’t told Ruby that. 

It’s freaking her out. 

“Strange as it may seem, I am totally sober,” Emma promises, leaning over the counter to grab her bag. “You may want to restock the Zebra Cakes. Just like...FYI.”

She grins, nodding once and it’s probably wrong to take some perverse joy out of his stunned expression, but his cat was a complete asshole and Emma’s going to get her victories where she can. 

She walks the almost-familiar few feet back to the apartment door, glancing up at a starless sky. It doesn’t feel right. There’s so much light in this city, a flash and a burst that makes it feel like the middle of the afternoon even at two in the morning, and none of it is real. It’s processed and fake and it makes noise, a neon hum that seems to time up with the sounds of traffic and the patter of incessant footsteps on the sidewalk outside her window and Emma knows she won’t be able to sleep. 

Even if she eats twenty-six Zebra Cakes. 

She definitely bought at least twenty-six Zebra Cakes. 

The building is quiet once she gets inside, a silence that Emma’s mind clings to, desperate for a few moments of reprieve, and she has to shift her hold on the bag to pull her keys out of her back pocket. 

She doesn’t notice him at first. 

At first she thinks it’s, simply, a shadow or a byproduct of the bone-searing exhaustion she can feel in every inch of her, but then she sees it and her head snaps to the right, mouth going dry because it’s really not much more than a shadow and a shift and the rush of _something_ that moves from the top of her head to the tips of her toes is as surprising as it is welcome. 

Magic. 

Her magic. 

In surround sound. 

Emma drops the bag. God, she hopes she didn’t crush any of her Zebra Cakes. 

She takes a deep breath and a step forward – not quite confident, but, at least, a little determined and the shadow is a man and the man is grumbling some rather pointed curses under his breath, punching what, at first glance, appears to be a balled-up leather jacket. 

“God damn, fucking asshole, shit romantic…”

Emma’s eyebrows fly into her hair, the magic in her veins turning from a boil to a simmer and she doesn’t mean to laugh. Again. Honestly. But her body doesn’t care and her emotions don’t care and the man jerks his head as soon as his brain processes the noises she’s making. 

“Did I wake you up?”

Emma shakes her head. “No.”  
  
“You’re just...awake? Now?”  
  
“I mean…” She waves her suddenly-free hand in the space in front of her, and the jacket falls to the ground when he moves his head away from the wall. “I’d think that was kind of obvious, right? Are you awake?”  
  
“What kind of question is that?”  
  
“You asked me first!”  
  
“But that was me being concerned. Kind, even.”  
  
Emma’s next head shake turns incredulous. “You’re a crazy person,” she accuses, another hand movement. She has to keep moving. The magic at the end of her fingers feels like it’s crackling. She’s seriously going to eat all of her Zebra Cakes. “And, honestly, kind of a dick. Totally missed the mark on kind.”

The guy heaves a dramatic sigh, glancing up at her from underneath impossibly long eyelashes. His eyes are blue. Emma swallows. “I’m going to kill Scarlet,” he says, like that makes any sense and she needs to move. 

She needs to get in her apartment with her copious amount of overpriced and mass-produced baked goods and she needs to figure out what the hell is happening with her magic. 

And what it means for everyone else’s magic. 

And the man who invaded Storybrooke. 

“Well,” Emma says, “that’s, uh...that’s your prerogative, I guess. Just--” She’s going to leave. She wants to leave. She’s _got_ to leave. But something in the back of her mind is screaming, _begging_ , her not to and her magic shifts again, a burst of heat and rush of feeling and the man’s eyes widen. 

Like he notices. 

Like that’s possible. 

“Am I supposed to know who Scarlet is?”

He scoffs, but it’s almost a laugh and it might be the nicest sound Emma’s heard in...well, a week. “I’d be surprised if you did,” he mutters. “Unless you’re some kind of psychic.”  
  
“I can’t say I am.”  
  
Several other things, but not a psychic. The man grins. 

“Well, then I’m not surprised you think I’m a dick. I just...Scarlet is my roommate, currently doing several things behind that door that I can’t even begin to process because he’s obviously got no concern for my emotional well being.”  
  
“Which leaves you…”  
  
“Stuck in this hallway because the bastard has decided he needs to...I don’t know, take over the entire apartment. And, unfortunately, annoying you.”  
  
The grin turns into a smirk, hair falling across his forehead in a way that probably shouldn’t make Emma want to run her fingers through it. She rolls her eyes. “You’re very loud.”  
  
“That’s because it’s an impossibly uncomfortable wall.”

“You’re just going to sleep out here then?” Emma asks, and he shrugs. “That can’t be very safe.”  
  
“Are you suggesting this isn’t a safe building?”  
  
“I haven’t really been here that long.”  
  
He nods, mouth twisted in thought. “I’ve noticed that.”

“Have you just?”  
  
The man’s lips part with a soft _pop_ , eyes widening to a size that’s even more comical because Emma is starting to have a difficult time staying upright. Her magic is thrumming in her ears. “Not in...you know, a stalker way,” he says, letting his head fall against the wall and Emma does her best to bite back her smile. “Just in a...way that we don’t normally get a lot of new tenants and it’s, well, it’s rent controlled so not many people are ever moving out and…”

“You always so articulate?”  
  
“I’m going to blame Scarlet again, honestly.”  
  
Emma laughs. It’s weird. It’s not weird. “Understandable,” she says, taking a step forward. “Is it strange that I know your roommate’s name and his life story and I’m still referring to you as _some guy_ in my head?”  
  
“Some guy is not the worst thing I’ve been called.”

“Color me intrigued. And that’s not an answer.”  
  
He stares at her for a moment – and Emma gets the distinct feeling she’s been appraised. Or taken inventory of. It’s not entirely uncomfortable, particularly when she feels her magic settle at the base of her spine, a soft pulse that feels like a metronome for her heart and, possibly, her soul and she absolutely, positively imagines the way he looks at her. 

She has to. 

Because he looks at her like he knows her or could know her or _has_ known her and the tenses don’t make sense and the magic doesn’t make sense, but she’s still not running away and her right knee cracks when she crouches down. 

“A name,” Emma says, and she doesn’t imagine that. He beams at her. Like the sun or something. She’s so goddamn tired. 

“Killian Jones.”

Her magic soars. Her whole body feels like it’s on pins and needles, a sudden lightness that doesn’t match up to the burst of confidence blooming in her chest, pressing on the inside of her ribs and pinching her lungs and Emma licks her lips again. 

His eyes flash towards the movement. 

“This is the part where you follow up with your own name, love.”

“Wow, just jumping into endearments and flirting, huh?” 

“I’ve been inspired by the actions of my roommate.”  
  
“I’m not sure if that’s an insult or not.”  
  
“Not,” Killian promises. “He just got engaged, so…”

“Oh, that’s nice actually.”

“And not your name.”  
  
Emma considers her options. She’s not sure she has many, honestly, and it’s not as terrifying a prospect as it probably should be. It feels unnaturally natural, a strange contradiction that makes as much sense as anything that’s ever happened to her and she hadn’t noticed how dark it is in that hallway before. 

The light above her keeps flickering on and off, bits of darkness creeping into the edge of her vision, and Killian is still smiling at her. 

Ruby is going to kill her. 

“Swan,” she says, the complete certainty that she’s done this before echoing in the back of her mind. “My name’s Emma Swan.”

She thrusts her hand out, fingers fluttering in the air around them. It feels heavier all the sudden, like the world is holding its breath, but that may just be Emma and Killian’s gaze darts from her hand, up her arm and back towards her lips before it lands directly on her face, or possibly, in the center of her very being and his skin is warm when it brushes against hers. 

He moves his thumb across the back of her palm. 

“It’s a pleasure,” he murmurs, voice shifting slightly so it sounds like him and...not. Emma has no idea what to do with that, the déjà vu bouncing around her skull, but she doesn’t pull her hand away either and she’s got no idea how long they stay there. 

“My leg is starting to cramp,” she says eventually, and Killian’s answering laugh will very likely be imprinted on every corner of her brain for the rest of her life. 

He stands up, an awkward bend of limbs when neither of them seem particularly inclined to actually let go of the other. “C’mon, it’s uh...you were going inside at some point, probably.”  
  
“Nothing gets past you, huh?”  
  
“Perceptive, that’s why.”

Emma nods, letting him lead her back towards her front door and the bag she’d almost forgotten about. Her magic hasn’t stopped doing _whatever_ yet, but she’s drifting somewhere close to calm and that same sense of normal and her keys are still hanging in the lock. 

“And look who was questioning the safety of the building before,” Killian says. “What---what were you doing up, Swan?”

Her eyes widen at the slightly different endearment, but it doesn’t feel wrong either and she really needs to sleep. “Oh, uh...just insomnia,” she answers evasively, a blatant lie that sounds even worse when directed at Killian. His lips twitch. She’s staring at his lips.

“Yuh huh. And that’s solved, by--” He ducks down, grabbing the bag before Emma can stop him. “The world’s largest horde of shitty baked goods.”  
  
“Ok, there’s no need to be rude about it. And my options were kind of limited, plus there was an asshole cat and--”  
  
“--Oh, I hate that cat.”

“Wait, what?”  
  
“The cat downstairs?” Killian ventures, Emma nodding like a crazy person. A crazy witch. Destined to save magic. Not to flirt with strangers in the hallway. “Yeah, that cat’s a total dick. Constantly patrolling the aisles down there like he’s serving Bastet and not some slightly skeezy bodega owner.”  
  
“I’m going to say you’ve lost me.”  
  
“Bastet. Egyptian goddess. Protected the pharaohs apparently.”  
  
“Apparently?”  
  
Killian shrugs. “As far as I’m aware the pharaohs still had a tendency to die. Some of them rather horribly, so...you know, I don’t know what she was protecting, really.”  
  
“You’re the most judgmental person I’ve ever met.”  
  
“Now you know why _some guy_ wasn’t the most offensive thing I’ve ever been called.”

She’s charmed. Impossibly so. And she’s fairly certain Killian knows it too. He leans forward, crowding into her space and that one strand of hair hanging above his left eyebrow may be Emma’s personal undoing. “The cat hates me too, love,” he mutters. “I wouldn’t take it too personally. But that’s also not an explanation as to why you’re trying to rot your teeth out.”

“I like Zebra Cakes.”  
  
“And cavities?”  
  
“You’re very concerned with my well-being aren’t you?” Emma asks, and she knows it comes out like the accusation she was trying to avoid. Killian tenses. “I just…” she continues, softer and a little more cautious and she needs her magic to relax. It’s difficult to concentrate when she can see the muscles in his throat moving. “Well, I wasn’t lying about the insomnia. Honestly. And you’re right. We just moved in and--”  
  
“--Not used to New York, huh?”  
  
“Are you?”  
  
“I’ve been here for awhile.”  
  
It’s an evasive answer – half a fact and a hint of walls, but Emma found him trying to sleep in the hallway, so she figures it’s the best she’s going to get and the next few words out of her mouth feel like they fall straight from her heart. 

“You want to come inside?”  
  
Killian blinks. Twice. Three times. And tilts his head. She’s going to cut his hair in the middle of the night. It is the middle of the night. “What?”

“Inside,” Emma says again, impressive diction when her lower lip is twisted between her teeth. “I...well, you’re not a secret serial killer, right?”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
She’s sure he doesn’t mean for those two words to sound like the single most important two words any human being has uttered to someone who is not quite human, but Emma’s mind doesn’t care and her magic cares even less and one of them probably rocks forward first. Their shoes are touching. 

_Ruby is going to kill her_. 

Killian swallows again. 

“I wouldn’t…” he starts, another guarantee that doesn’t quite match up to the situation. Emma’s déjà vu makes her knees wobble. “I’d appreciate it, Swan. If you’re sure.”

“Yeah. That’s...well, the wall looked pretty uncomfortable and I’d imagine you’d like to be as far away from your own door as possible. You know...if they start getting really creative over there.”  
  
Her rather pitiful attempt at humor hits its mark – another victory Emma is going to cling to for, at least, the next twenty-four hours – and Killian’s hand ghosts over her side when he leans forward again. “Oh God, don’t paint pictures like that,” he grumbles. “I don’t know if they’re that creative. And they’ve got to sleep at some point.”  
  
“Do they though?”  
  
“You are a God awful hostess.”

She swats at his chest – familiar and unacceptable for someone she met in the _middle of the hallway_ not even twenty minutes before, but Killian doesn’t miss a beat. He wraps his fingers around her wrist, tugging her hand up and his eyes do something that is...magic. Maybe. It makes Emma’s breath catch and her heart grow and her keys are still hanging from the lock. 

“I’m going to retract my offer,” she says, another empty threat they’re both almost _too_ aware of. 

“Do you actually like Zebra Cakes?”  
  
“They didn’t have any Swiss Rolls.”

He chuckles, nodding like it’s the most important fact he’s ever learned and leans around Emma to twist the key. The lock clicks, the door swinging open and a thin line of man-made light stretches across the hardwood floor. 

They don’t have a couch. 

They’re hiding from evil. 

_Ruby is going to kill Emma_. 

“You know there’s an Ikea in Brooklyn now,” Killian quips, still half a step behind Emma like he’s waiting for another invitation. She rolls her eyes. And the door sounds impossibly loud when it closes, as if they’ve crossed a line they can’t retreat from. 

She’s melodramatic when she’s tired. 

“I have no idea how to get to Brooklyn.”  
  
Killian makes a slightly strangled noise, toeing out of his shoes like she’s got _rules_ for her hideout apartment, but he also doesn’t know she’s hiding out and Emma’s head is spinning. She flutters her fingers at her side, trying to work out the residual energy she’s certain will cause her to actually turn phosphorescent at some point. 

“Really? No idea at all?”  
  
Emma shrugs. “Should I?”  
  
“Why did you move to New York, Swan?”  
  
They’re not just standing on thin ice anymore. They’ve fallen straight through and gotten hit in the head in the process and are suffering from hypothermia or something else detrimental to their health. 

Emma’s hair feels like it’s crackling. 

“You want a Zebra cake?” she asks instead, an obvious deflection. She needs to stop staring at Killian’s lips. 

“Yeah, ok.”

They make it through half of them before Emma’s stomach starts to hate her for it, empty glasses on either side of them and legs stretched out. There are, at least, a few blankets in the hallway closet and Emma grabs every single one before settling back on the living room floor.  
  
Killian doesn’t say anything about that. 

She appreciates it – because she kind of hates the room at the other end of the hall and the never-ending sirens always sound louder when she’s left alone with her own thoughts and, really, she can’t bring herself to walk away from him. Which is kind of a lot to deal with when she’s stuffed with Zebra Cakes. 

And they don’t fall asleep immediately, they talk, quiet words and soft smiles, fluttering eyelashes and Killian’s head propped on his hand. 

She tells him she was a little disappointed the bodega didn’t have chocolate syrup for her milk. He tells her he’s actually pretty thrilled for Scarlet and the still unnamed fiancée. She says she’s in law enforcement. He says he works at the library. She’d maybe like to see Times Square. He’s disgusted by even the idea. 

It’s good. Great, even. It’s impossibly easy and far too simple and Emma only realizes that she’s fallen asleep when her eyes snap open, Ruby practically foaming at the mouth and throwing her shoe across the living room. 

“What the hell is this?” Ruby demands. She jumps up when she doesn’t get an immediate answer, eyes no more than slits on her face and it takes Emma half a breath to realize what, exactly, has her so angry. 

They’d moved at some point. 

She’s still on the floor. Killian is still on the floor. But they’d drifted, hardly any space between them and an arm flung over Emma’s side, legs tangled and blankets tangled and Killian’s breath hitches when he wakes up. 

“Oh fuck,” he mumbles, drawing a quiet laugh out Emma that only exacerbates Ruby even more. “Sorry, love.”

Ruby growls. Howls, honestly. She throws her whole head back, hands fisted at her side and Emma’s eyes dart around to make sure she’s run out of shoes to attack them with. 

“Rubes,” she starts, “this is not…”  
  
Ruby’s glare rivals several other ancient deities. “What?” she hisses. “It’s not what? Who the hell is this jerk?”

“Some guy is honestly starting to get more and more appealing,” Killian mumbles. He pushes up, shaking the hair away from his eyes. He doesn’t actually move that far away from Emma though, hand lingering on the small of her back for a moment, as if he’s trying to ground himself and she hears him take a deep breath. 

“Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here?”  
  
Emma groans. “Rubes, I need you to take, like, six-hundred steps back. He lives next door.”  
  
“And we’re inviting strangers in now? Em, are you kidding me? What if something had--”  
  
“--Nothing was going to happen,” Killian interrupts sharply, and Emma knows she shouldn’t be entirely disappointed by that. 

She needs to save magic. 

She’s got shit to do. That doesn’t include flirting. Or sleeping. Or eating Little Debbie snacks. 

“Yuh huh,” Ruby nods. “Sure. That’s why you’re all curled around each other.”  
  
Emma’s face flushes, a rush of heat and magic in her cheeks. “Ok, well, this has been stellar, Rubes, but if you’re done acting like you’re my parent or guardian, that’d be--”  
  
“--No, no, this isn’t over. I am...we can’t just let people in here, Em.”  
  
“I know!”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
She winces, knows Ruby is right and she’d acted on an instinct she’d never acknowledge before. Emma can’t shake the feeling that she _knows him_ though, an easy sense of confidence and calm to it all and she sighs as soon as she feels Killian’s hand fall away from her. 

“I should probably get going anyway,” he says, kicking away blankets. “Did I bring my coat in here with me?”  
  
Ruby sounds like she’s being strangled. 

Emma cannot roll her eyes hard enough. “I don’t think so,” she mumbles. “It’s probably still in the hallway.”  
  
“Right, right,” Killian nods. He doesn’t move away immediately, smiles at her instead as if he’s trying to commit her to memory. Emma bites her lip. “So, uh...I’ll see you--”  
  
“--Out,” Ruby cries. She’s found another shoe. “Now!”

Killian winks at Emma. 

Her magic does something at that. 

“Later,” he whispers, and it sounds like another promise. Emma must nod. Her hair moves. And the door slams behind Killian when he leaves, Ruby doing a fairly good job of masquerading as a very impressive marble statue in the middle of a sparsely decorated living room. 

“You breathing over there?” Emma quips. Ruby clicks her teeth. 

“I honestly cannot tell. What the hell were you thinking, Em? Some random guy? Are we not...are we not stressed out enough here?”  
  
“What is it that you’re suggesting, exactly?”  
  
“He left his coat somewhere?”  
  
Emma’s jaw drops, a juvenile response, but _that_ thought hadn’t even entered her mind. “Oh my God,” she stammers, eyes bugging as well. “Are you kidding me? Who do you think I am?”  
  
“If I knew that, we wouldn’t have a magical issue on our hands, now would we?”  
  
“Oh, that’s a low blow.”

Ruby sighs. “I know it is. Sorry. I just...well, I came out here and there was this dude and it was like--” She trails off, a quick shrug and jerk of her hands and Emma’s eyes narrow. 

“Like what?”  
  
“Like we’d done this before. And don’t--there’s no need to tell me how impossible that is, I’m perfectly aware I’m probably just going crazy, but it’s also probably a byproduct of my magic being so fucked up, so...what?”  
  
Emma is shaking her head. She hadn’t realized. “That’s what I felt too. Déjà vu and it was...I don’t know, like he was waiting for me or something.”

The words tumble out of her without her explicit permission, something Emma doesn’t altogether appreciate because it’s not altogether true. He’d been hiding from his romantic roommate. And unnamed fiancée. But it happens anyway, an admission and something that feels almost like hope and both Emma and Ruby flinch when one of their phones ring. 

“Holy shit,” Ruby mutters, hand reaching up to clutch the amulet around her neck. The phone stops ringing. Only to start again. 

Emma glances around, trying to find the source of the sound and it’s underneath one of the blankets Killian had been using. That’s probably not a sign either. 

She gasps. She wishes she’d stop doing that. 

“David,” she yells as soon as her thumb swipes across the screen and whatever noise she makes next is ten-thousand times worse than a sigh. “Oh my God.”  
  
“What?” Ruby demands. “Oh, yeah, God, you look like garbage.”

David winces, but whether that’s from the insults or the overall state of his face, Emma can’t be sure. He’s bruised and battered and then some, one eye swollen shut and obvious stitches on his top lip, a purple hue to just about every inch of him that has Emma biting back jokes about _grapes_ and _purple people eaters_. 

She makes jokes when she’s nervous. 

And terrified. 

She’s terrified.

“What took you guys so long to answer?” David asks. “Mary Margaret is freaking out.”

“Ok, that’s not true,” Mary Margaret objects, just out of frame. She’s pacing, a quick blur behind David when she moves and there are few cuts on her arm as well. Emma blinks so she doesn’t start to cry. “I have every confidence that you guys are going to save us all.”  
  
“That was not your best work,” Emma says. “And, we’re uh...it’s a work in progress, but we didn’t really have a lot to go on and--”

“--Why did you call?” Ruby cuts in, ignoring Emma’s groan. “Why haven’t you called earlier?”

David can’t glare with only one eye, but he makes an admirable effort. “Are you kidding me?”  
  
“We were worried,” Emma whispers. “Like...you really do look like garbage, officer.”

“You should see the other guy.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“No,” Mary Margaret answers despondently, coming to a stop and pushing her way into the frame. “The other guy is perfectly fine because the other guy is using up dark magic like it’s never going to disappear.”

“Wait, what? I thought all magic was disappearing.”  
  
“It is.”

Emma and Ruby groan in tandem that time, sitting up straighter out of habit because the voice _that_ answer belongs to will probably yell at them if they don’t. 

Regina Mills still looks impeccable, even when defending Storybrooke against some kind of apparent siege, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her pantsuit and Emma’s always wondered where she gets her lipstick. It’s always perfect. 

The mayor of Storybrooke does, however, look a little annoyed at them and that’s, more or less, par for the course. Regina’s magic has always been _something_ , a once-in-a-lifetime kind of power that makes her the obvious choice to lead a town of magical creatures and Emma still can’t wrap her mind around her place in all of this. 

Regina should be the Savior. 

Not her. 

“How much do you two remember about The Dark One?” Regina asks cooly, taking the phone out of David’s hand without asking. Emma’s going to have to buy eye drops. It can’t be good for them to be widening this much. They’re going to dry out. 

Or just fall out of her face. 

“That’s a myth, isn’t it?” Ruby whispers. “The Dark One was just,..a scary story we told each other when we were kids. There’s no overpowering Darkness. That’s like saying there’s--”  
  
“--An overpowering Light?”

Emma drops the phone. 

And sighs. So does Regina. She expects that. 

“You honestly think that the guy who attacked Storybrooke demanding Emma is The Dark One?” Ruby asks. “C’mon. Like the Dark One. That’s not a real thing. It can’t be. That’s like saying there are actually pirates and princesses and shit.”  
  
“You’re a werewolf, Rubes,” David reasons, and he’s got a point. 

“Ok, hold on a second,” Emma says. “Regina, you’re serious?” A nod. “Ok, so...The Dark One. That’s...we’re sure that’s actually who is attacking Storybrooke?”  
  
“Was.”

Emma nearly falls over. She’s sitting down. “Why past tense?”  
  
“Because that’s what’s happening, Emma,” Regina explains, sounding like she’s talking to a petulant child. 

“Start at the start.”

David laughs under his breath, hissing slightly when Mary Margaret rests a hand on his shoulder. Emma’s eyes don’t leave Regina’s, a desperation in her gaze that makes her feel as if she’s run several miles and cast the world’s most complex spell and her fingers won’t stop moving. Regina may actually smile. 

It’s a miracle.  
  
Of the magical variety. 

“No one knows where magic came from,” Regina says. “Or where we came from, for that matter. We’re all flush with a power that very few could even dream of, let alone understand. But that power isn’t always good. There are kinks in the system, bits of darkness and twists of fate and the Dark One is said to be the one person who can control that.”  
  
“That what?” Emma asks. “Be more specific, Regina.”  
  
“The opposite of you, Ms. Swan. The seeress was very specific, was she not? The light in the dark? That’s you. You’re the key to figuring out how to maintain magic and that’s why the Dark One wants you. Desperately, in fact. I think he’s losing the grip on his control as well.”

“But Mary Margaret said they’re using magic. How is that possible?”  
  
Regina looks disappointed. That’s not surprising either. “They’re not you, Ms. Swan. The Dark One and those following him, they’re not worried about conserving their magic or anything except trying to find you. Because they believe they’ll find you. It won’t matter what they do in the meantime.”  
  
“He thinks you can jumpstart magic, Em,” David says softly, as if each letter hurts to speak. It might. He looks like garbage. “All of it. Light, dark, everything.”

“We kind of knew that though, didn’t we?” Ruby asks. She’s standing now, bobbing on the balls of her feet and Emma’s only a little worried she’s going to yank her amulet off. That’s the last thing she needs right now. “I mean..he wasn’t being very secretive about it. He was literally shouting about Emma.”

Mary Margaret makes a contrary noise. 

And any sense of magic in Emma’s veins evaporates suddenly and immediately, leaving her feeling hollow and alone and she knows. “He’s coming here, isn’t he?” she asks, looking back at an already nodding Regina. “How do you know?”  
  
“People have stopped dying,” Regina answers bluntly, Ruby not bothering to make her curses quiet. David yanks the phone out of her hand. 

“It’s more complicated than that,” he argues. “It’s--what happened to you last night?”

Honestly. Eye drops. She needs eye drops. In bulk. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Ruby scoffs, holding both hands up in mock surrender when Emma gapes at her. “I mean you’re just a great, big giant liar, aren’t you? Emma met some guy in the hallway.”  
  
There’s a chorus of _what_ and _how_ and that one doesn’t even make sense because she’s fairly certain they all know how humans interact with each other, but she’s not entirely human and Mary Margaret is suspiciously quiet.

“M’s,” Emma drawls. “Thoughts? Feelings? Emotions?”  
  
“Several thousand, actually.”  
  
“You want to pick one or two? I don’t know when the Dark One is going to show up.”  
  
“We don’t know if he knows you’re in New York yet.”  
  
“You know you guys genuinely really suck at telling a complete and coherent story.”  
  
Mary Margaret’s smile is a little out of place, but Emma’s a very greedy witch and the muscles in her face ache a little when she tries to smile in response. “It’s been a disaster here since you left,” Mary Margaret says. “This man...the Dark One. He’s got--”  
  
“--Minions?” Ruby ventures. 

“Not in an animated sense. More in a...yanking people apart trying to find the spark of the Savior sense.” Emma knows, rationally, she can’t feel the blood rush out of her face. It’s impossible. Her vision swims anyway. “Anyway,” Mary Margaret continues. “There have been more than a few deaths and they’ve been, well, a little bloodier than normal deaths and then...last night. Something happened.”

“Like?”

“Magic. Powerful magic.”

Emma’s going to pass out. That can’t be a good look for the so-called savior of magic. “When?” she breathes, all too aware that she’s half admitting to something very likely didn’t actually happen and Mary Margaret’s smile wavers. 

“I don’t know...late though. Like maybe four in the morning?” She looks to David for confirmation, but only gets a head tilt and half-hearted shrug. “We were a little preoccupied with the previously discussed minions trying to get into our house.”  
  
Whatever noise Emma makes hurts her throat. 

“God, M’s,” Ruby hisses. “Way to bury the lede.”  
  
Mary Margaret waves them off. “That’s not what’s important.” Eye drops and throat lozenges and chocolate syrup. Emma should make a list. Maybe Killian knows where there’s a drug store nearby. “It’s not,” Mary Margaret continues, “what’s important is that it was magic and it was...strong. Like. Strong. We could do everything.”

“She got a whole flock of birds to get those minions away from our door,” David mutters. 

“It didn’t come from here though,” Regina adds. “That much was obvious and the Dark One while he may be the embodiment of complete evil, is not without his faculties. He’s smart. He’s calculating. And he knows that Emma isn’t in Storybrooke anymore.”

Emma exhales, pressing the pads of her fingers into her cheek like that will help the blood flow back to those particular capillaries. And the time doesn’t add up. She’d definitely fallen asleep before four o’clock. 

Damn. 

That shouldn’t be disappointing. 

“So, what do we do?” Emma asks. “He might not know we’re here now, but that’s probably only a matter of time, right?”

Regina nods. “The prophecy was clear. You’re the Savior. A key and a spark, The future of magic and light in the dark. I think that’s the most important part. You’re the future of magic, not just because you’re going to make sure we can still have it, but because you’re going to preserve it.”  
  
“Be more specific, Regina.”

“The Dark One wants magic, but he wants to use it to twist it to his own means. Evil. And absolute. No more light magic, for any of us. You’re there to stop that.”  
  
“No pressure or anything.”  
  
“Oh, a substantial amount of that. And you’re running out of time.”  
  
“Jeez, Madam Mayor,” Ruby mutters, but Emma can’t argue and they need to do something. She flutters her fingers at her side. 

“Alright,” she says. “So we’ve got to find something that will keep magic alive, but get rid of the Dark One too? Do you think they’re the same thing?”  
  
“We’re all going to die.”

The phone changes hands again, David appearing in front of the screen with a look Emma’s only seen a handful of times. She tugs her lips behind her teeth. “It’s all you, Em,” he says, a confidence in his voice that she needs to hear on repeat. “Whatever power you’ve still got, you’ve got to use it. To find something. Your magic is strong. There’s a reason you ended up in New York. There’s something there to help you.”  
  
“The world wants to help you, Ms. Swan,” Regina says. “The seeress wouldn’t have arrived to warn us, otherwise. You simply have to accept the world.”

Emma grimaces – well acquainted with years on her own and even in a town like Storybrooke, she’d always found herself standing on the outside looking in, friendships that ran deep, but not much family and only her magic and now that’s starting to disappear as well and her tongue feels as if it’s expanding in her mouth. 

She licks her lips. 

“You can do it,” Mary Margaret promises, Emma nodding. It’s not an agreement. It’s a brush off. They both know that. 

“If you had to ballpark how soon the Dark One would get here, what would you guess?”

Regina doesn’t look amused. “I wouldn’t waste much time with the man you found in the hallway, Ms. Swan. And if memory serves there’s a rather impressive myths and legends section in the New York Public Library.”

Eventually, she’s sure she won’t let every single thought she’s ever had land on her face as well as the forefront of her brain. 

“What?” Regina presses. “What’s that?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“No, once more.”  
  
“The guy,” Emma says, rushing over the word and pointedly ignoring David’s gaze, “he, uh...he said he works for the library. I don’t know if it’s that one, but it’s...it’s a library.”  
  
Regina doesn’t answer. Ruby is cursing again. Mary Margaret starts pacing. 

David stares straight at Emma. 

“Be careful,” he says, and it’s not a request. It’s a plea. Emma’s heart stutters. “Please.”

“Ok.”  
  
The line goes dead, far quicker than it would have if David had, simply, hung up and the tears that land on Emma’s cheeks almost immediately feel like emotional and magical brands on her skin. God, she is melodramatic. 

“Well,” Ruby exhales. “That’s uh...no time like the present, right?” 

Emma tilts her head up, met with a determined expression that usually only shows up ahead of full moons and autumn equinoxes and her smile feels almost honest. That’s nice. 

“You’re just rearing to go, huh?”

Ruby’s grin looks a little predatory. “I’m ready to go play hero, if that’s what you’re asking. You feeling particularly magical?”  
  
“I think I’m almost willing to try.”  
  
“Ah, well, that’s half the battle, isn’t it?” She holds her hand out, Emma taking it immediately and the hug she pulls her into is tight enough to crack a few ribs. “You have any idea how to get to the library?”  
  
“Not a clue.”  
  
“What do they say? It’s a grid system?”  
  
“I think I’ve heard that somewhere before, yeah.”  
  
“Well, if we get attacked somewhere in Manhattan at least we’ll probably make the newspapers or something.”  
  
“Something,” Emma echoes. “Alright, let me at least change my clothes before we try and crash the New York Public Library.”

Ruby nods, another quick squeeze and even quicker kiss pressed to Emma’s cheek. “Crash is definitely the word you were looking for there.”

She doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t mention that her magic flared to life when she saw Killian. Or that it disappeared as soon as he walked away. She bites back the admission, positive that it isn’t important or can’t be important or some other negative contradiction she’ll come up with eventually. 

When she’s not treading dangerously close to a panic attack. 

She didn’t object to either one of the endearments. 

And it really doesn’t take long – the only clothes Emma has to change into, a pair of second-hand jeans and a few other t-shirts they’d gotten from the thrift store up the block after she’d magic’ed her way into an ATM – but she feels like she’s on the edge of something as soon as she crosses the apartment threshold, air thick and hands flexing and her eyes snap to the corner of the hallway. 

Killian’s jacket is gone. 

The New York Public Library is not loud. Everything else is. It takes her and Ruby what feels like a small eternity to walk up to it, a little confused because Bowery becomes a different street and _I thought this was a grid_ , but that’s apparently a lie below a certain street and there are beads of sweat on Emma’s temple by the time they make it to 5th Ave. 

Where, it sounds like, a small army of people have congregated. 

Emma has no idea where to look, nails digging into her palm to stop herself from screaming. She’s not sure if she’s scared or...something else. Something else sounds worse. And very small town. 

Small town witch. 

What a ridiculous string of words. 

The noise doesn’t stop. Not on the street or in front of the park and Emma has no idea what that smell is that appears to be coming from a nearby cart. She squeezes her eyes closed, trying to find some kind of equilibrium or even ground and the scene that flashes in front of her is not midtown Manhattan. 

It’s her. But...not. She’s smiling, a look of adoration on her face that she’s never used before because there’s never been anyone who warranted a look like that before. It’s enough that, for a moment, she’s distracted by what she’s wearing – a gown, in the truest sense of the word, flowing, white fabric and oversized sleeves and she doesn’t immediately realize what’s pinching at her hair.

A crown. 

She’s wearing a crown. 

“Your highness,” a voice mumbles, a hint of a smile in the words and Emma’s stomach flips. That’s confusing. “Sorry I’m late.”

Emma laughs. She feels it, the noise bubbling out of her with joy and ease and she can’t quite see the face in front of her, but she wants to. Desperately. 

So, naturally, she opens her eyes. 

“Em,” Ruby snaps, and _that_ word sounds fearful. It shakes and rattles around Emma’s skull, impossibly loud even in front of the New York Public Library. “You ready?”

Emma nods. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Let’s see what we can find.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hai, internet! Back on our ridiculously long story nonsense here. I cannot properly articulate how THRILLED I am to be posting this story. I started writing this in March on a whim, based off a Tumblr prompt that I thought would spawn, maybe, five chapters. And then. Things happened. And this story kept growing and it took over my life and may be the only reason I got through the spring sports season and I am so, so, so excited for you guys to see what happens. 
> 
> Title from the Panic! song "When the Day Met the Night" because...you'll see. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	2. Chapter 2

They don’t find much. It’s incredibly frustrating. 

And what they do find isn’t in English and only leads to more dead ends and Emma wonders if she’ll end up in the papers if she starts pulling her hair out. The next few days pass in a blur of lingering worries and latent anxiety, slightly musty books and a very nice librarian with brown hair and an easy smile and she’s still got no idea how to save magic or defeat some sort of mythical evil. 

Ruby’s spent the whole afternoon trying to figure out how to translate the latest book they’ve requested. It’s not in English. 

“This is the worst thing we’ve ever done,” Ruby announces, slumped into one of the chairs at the table they’ve commandeered as their own. Emma is starting to consider the chairs some kind of New York Public Library torture device. 

She’s definitely got a bruise on her back. 

“Is it?”

Ruby nods seriously, and the bags under her eyes have bags. “Bar none. Including that one time you and Mary Margaret tried to sneak me out before the full moon so she could talk to that one group of rabbits.”

“That was not my idea at all,” Emma argues, memories flitting through her mind and Mary Margaret had been certain that Ruby’s heightened wolf senses would help. It was absurd. The rabbits were terrified. Ruby was hungry. And Granny had threatened to tie them up by their shoestrings in the basement of the diner as soon as she figured out what was going on. 

“Semantics,” Ruby mumbles. She huffs out a breath of air, frustration obvious in the sound and someone wearing very expensive headphones actually has the gall to shush them. Emma widens her eyes. “God, this city is the worst,” Ruby continues, voice rising. It’s on purpose. 

Emma knows. 

She understands. 

She’s going to have find ice for back. 

“What if we call it a night?” she suggests. “We’re not going to figure anything else out and you’re going to go attack that guy sooner rather than later.”  
  
“I resent the suggestion.”  
  
“Rubes.”

Ruby sticks her tongue out. “He’s just being a dick for the sake of being a dick. Those headphones are definitely noise-cancelling. It’s ridiculous.”  
  
“Chinese or pizza?”  
  
“You’re changing the subject on purpose.”  
  
“Yes,” Emma nods, slamming shut the book in front of her. The dust it emits makes her cough. “And I really can’t sit in this chair anymore.”

“Ah, well, I guess that’s fair. Alright. And pizza, obviously.”

They order pizza. And eat the whole thing. Plus garlic knots, Ruby making several pointed jokes about _vampires_ that fall a little flat, but Emma’s exhausted and they don’t find anything the next day either. Or the day after that. 

And the sun is just starting to go down when Emma jogs up the stairs towards her door, keys clattering in her hand and several different emotions that, mostly, boil down to just _pissed off_ lingering at the base of her spine. There’s someone standing in front of her door. 

“C’mon,” Emma groans, and she does not have the energy to fight the Dark One right now. Or his minions. Animated or otherwise. “Are you kidding me?” she yells, a sudden tension in the air that she refuses to take responsibility for. Mostly because it only serves to make it blatantly obvious that the person standing in front of her door is not intrinsically evil. 

He turns slowly, like he’s a little worried about the reception he’ll get otherwise, a hand in his hair and one side of his mouth tugged up and--

“Hey,” Killian says. “Sorry, uh...hold off on the curses, ok? This isn’t an attack.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“Was that not a funny joke?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Ah,” he nods, lips quirking back down. He hasn’t moved his hand. “Right, right. Well, ok--that’s thrown a wrench in my plan, honestly.”  
  
Emma lifts her eyebrows. “Did you have a plan?”  
  
“Like. Half a one. Possibly three quarters.”  
  
“To?”  
  
“Talk to you? I saw you this afternoon.”

She cannot possibly get her eyebrows to go any higher up her forehead. She tries anyway. “You know you’re really not selling this whole no-stalker thing.”

“Yeah, I realize that,” Killian laughs, hand falling back to his side when he takes a step towards her. Emma doesn’t flinch. “I don’t usually work that far uptown, but Belle asked me to cover her shift and she’s been telling me about this woman coming in for the last few days asking about myths and legends and--”  
  
“--Hold on, hold on,” Emma interrupts sharply. Her hands are resting on his chest. She doesn’t remember deciding to do that. “Belle the very nice librarian? Is talking about me? To you?”  
  
“She’ll like that title quite a bit actually.”  
  
“Killian!”

Emma has to stop staring at his mouth. It’s doing weird things to her...soul. And the voice in the vision or _whatever_ she’d had a few days before was oddly familiar. Killian swallows, tongue flashing between his lips and he moves his hand excruciatingly slow, fingers curling around her wrist like they belong there. 

“Belle and I have worked at the library for years,” he explains. “Known each other since the dawn of time and all that cliché shit. She’s my friend. And Scarlet’s fiancée.”  
  
“No shit.”

He barks out a laugh and for one, incredibly crazy, sleep-deprived second Emma is certain he’s going to kiss her. Right there in the hallway. 

She has to glance down to make sure she hasn’t burst into flames. 

She hasn’t. 

And Killian doesn’t kiss her. 

Damn. 

“I promise I’m telling you the complete and honest truth, Swan,” Killian grins. “But, uh...Belle’s been fascinated by whatever it is you’re working on. Said it was the project of the century or something. Only, well, she and Scarlet had to do some wedding venue thing today--”  
  
“--Wow, you’re really getting into the romance of it, huh?”  
  
His eyebrows are more impressive than hers. “I hate the uptown D. It always smells like garbage on that train.”  
  
“We’ve been walking.”  
  
“God, that would take forever.”  
  
Emma hums, tugging lightly on the shirt her one hand is still resting on “Tell the rest of your story. So, you were stalking me again?”  
  
“Not intentionally.”

“Points for effort I suppose,” she mutters, hopeful she’ll get another smile for her joke. She does. “And you didn’t want to...you know, say something when you saw me?”

“You looked rather caught up in thought, love. It’d be rude to interrupt someone so studious.”  
  
“Sure it would. So...what is this, then? You letting me know that you were staring longingly across--what’s the name of that one room?”

“The Rose Main Reading Room.”  
  
“Naturally.”  
  
Killian scoffs, ducking his gaze and digging the toe of his shoe into the horrendous carpet of their apartment building’s hallway. “I just...well, like I said, Belle mentioned that you’d been in there. Obviously she didn’t know I knew you, but--what?”  
  
The face thing. It’s got to stop. 

“Do you?” Emma challenges, and it’s too much, an overstep and movement away from flirting, but her magic is _soaring_ and she’s having a difficult time staying cognizant. Her fingers grip Killian’s shirt tighter. “Know me?”  
  
He blinks. “I’d like to.”

And that’s enough. It shouldn’t be. But it is. It’s enough and then some, a promise and a guarantee and Killian’s soft exhale is warm on Emma’s cheek when he moves his head back up.

He can’t possibly feel her magic. 

She knows it. 

She wants to be wrong. 

Desperately. 

He didn’t actually object to her use of longing. 

“Huh,” Emma says lamely. Killian smirks. “Belle’s been talking about the research?  
  
“She’s a giant nerd.”

Her smile moves across her face like it belongs there, any sense of nervous energy disappearing into a cloud of magic and...something else. The cloud is metaphorical. “It sounds a little bit like you’re the giant nerd and you just don’t want to give yourself up.”

“I’m not disputing the possible idea that I may be passably curious in whatever you’re doing in the classics section and why some of the books that you’ve been requesting are not in English.”

“Shouldn’t there be, like, some kind of librarian-patron confidentiality agreement?”  
  
“Not as such, no.”  
  
Emma clicks her tongue. This is flirting. “Ok, so. Belle’s a great, big giant gossip and she tells you...what? That I’m researching something, some of which is in a language I absolutely cannot understand and--”  
  
“--I can.”

“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“She mentioned one of the books you requested two days ago was a myth about the Olympian crystal and as far as I know the only version the Library has of that is very much in Greek.”  
  
“And you can read Greek?” Killian nods, all smug and certain and it’s not a bad look either. “Jeez,” Emma groans. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Why are you looking at scripts about the Olympian crystal, Swan?”  
  
“No explanation about the Greek thing, huh?”  
  
“I was in the Navy. It was an elective.”  
  
“Honestly?” He eyes her meaningfully, a look that probably shouldn’t send a spark of heat down her spine, but Emma’s lost control of the entire situation and even the idea of the Olympian crystal freaks her out. “You’re really not going to let this go? Why were you lurking outside my door? And don’t tell me it’s about the Greeks. It’s--I know, that’s not it.”

She really, truly does not mean for it to be an accusation. She doesn't. It just comes out that way. And she’s positive she’s right. 

Killian sighs. 

“I wanted to apologize,” he mutters. “For...well, upsetting your friend and even letting myself into your apartment and--”

“--I invited you in.”  
  
“Yeah, but that doesn’t…” He cuts himself off, a tick in his jaw when he clenches it. “What’s going on, Emma?”  
  
They both tense slightly at the use of her name – the first time that’s happened and it’s only their second conversation. Emma resists the urge to shake her arms at her side, flush with energy and magic and missing something. Something big. 

“The Olympian crystal is supposed to be incredibly dangerous,” Killian continues. “Destroy someone’s entire existence. It’s not…”  
  
“Real?”  
  
“I didn’t say that.”  
  
“And what are you saying? Exactly?”  
  
Killian tilts his head, looking almost defeated. That’s a not-so-great look. “When I woke up the other morning your friend said that you couldn’t let people in. Why? Because it has to do with the Olympian crystal?”

“Oh my God,” Emma hisses, yanking her hand back to her side. She elbows herself in the ribs. “Who the hell do you think you are? And can you pick a goddamn lane? One second you’re apologizing and flirting and doing that stupid eyebrow thing and--”  
  
“--Stupid eyebrow thing?”  
  
“Shut up! I..” She exhales, hard enough that she ruffles the ends of her hair. Killian doesn’t move. “I can’t tell you what is going on, because it’s--well, frankly it’s way too much for you to deal with and you’re some guy from the hallway. You’re not...you don’t know anything about me. Nothing. And this would...you’d run.”

Killian takes a step back. 

He looks like she’s slapped him. 

“Try me,” he challenges, a sneer to his lips that makes Emma’s blood and magic boil in equal measure. 

“No.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Killian clicks his tongue, the blue in his gaze getting sharper when he crowds back into Emma’s space. The hand that lands on her hip is heavy, warmth seeping through the thin material of her shirt and the light at the other end of the hall flickers again. “Try me,” he repeats. “You can even say it in Greek if you’d like.”  
  
“I can't speak Greek.”  
  
“Then I’m afraid we’re at an impasse, love.”

She considers her options. Option one is punching him squarely in the jaw. It’s appealing, honestly, but she can’t remember if she’s supposed to keep her thumb insider her fist or out and that kind of nullifies the whole thing. Option two is cursing him. Also appealing, but just as irresponsible, even if the magic roaring in her ears is any indication of what she’d be able to do.

Option three is..terrifying. 

And, naturally, the one she picks. 

“I’m a witch.”

The pinch that suddenly appears between Killian’s eyebrows will very likely linger there for the rest of his life. “Wait. What?”  
  
“I told you, you wouldn’t be able to handle it.”  
  
“You’re putting words in my mouth, Swan. I never said that. I’m just...trying to process. Like. A real witch? Do you have a broom?”  
  
“That’s rude.”  
  
“That’s a legitimate question!”  
  
“No, it’s not. I don’t need a broom.”  
  
“Naturally.” She rolls her eyes at the forced casualness of his voice. “Ok, so why would a witch need a powerful soul destroyer from the Gods?”

“Sit down. This might take a couple minutes.”

Emma tells him. The whole goddamn story. Prophecy and evil beings and she’s not sure she can actually _destroy_ someone’s essence like that, but she’s not sure she has another choice and she can’t figure out why the Dark One hasn’t made a move yet. 

And Killian, to his credit, doesn’t interrupt. He listens and nods and that pinch is still there, but Emma figures that’s more than fair and her mouth is dry by the time she finishes. It really is an incredibly uncomfortable wall to lean against. 

“Huh,” Killian says when Emma finishes, twisting her mouth at the rather lackluster response. 

“You don’t believe me.”  
  
“I need you to stop making such sweeping assumptions about me, love. It’s disappointing.”  
  
“I don’t know you.”  
  
“And yet you told me about this.”  
  
“You were waiting outside my door to apologize for being invited inside.”  
  
He hums, fingers finding the back of his hair again and it’s a nervous habit. Emma’s starting to catalogue those. Maybe she’s also a librarian. “That’s true,” he admits. “But, uh...just to make sure I’ve got it all right here. You, the prophesied Savior of magic, left your magical hometown when the evil guy--”  
  
“--The Dark One.”  
  
“Right, right, when he showed up. And now you’re going to use the Olympian crystal to destroy him from existence.”  
  
“God, it sounds like shit when you say it like that.”  
  
“I’m afraid it’s not a particularly positive experience, Swan. The heroes of the stories didn’t use it very often. And how do you figure the crystal will help you restore magic? Keeping in mind that you do, in fact, still have to find it. If it’s real.”

He catches her hand when she tries to swat at him again. 

“You’re no help at all.”  
  
“I’m pointing out facts. To go along with your fact-based story. You really can’t do any magic?”  
  
Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat, not an agreement nor a disagreement because she feels like she could teleport to the moon. Or the sun. They’re on some kind of light-based theme. She closes her eyes, trying to focus on the hum in the back of her head, a quiet push of energy and power and it should be easier than this. 

It’s always been easier than this. 

Her magic has always been instinctual, like walking back into a dream or falling into a memory. Now it feels like it’s buried deep within her, as if using it will take all her energy and she gasps at the taste of blood in her mouth. 

She’d been biting her lip. 

“Swan,” Killian mutters, thumb brushing over the curve of her jaw. “C’mon, look at me love. It’s fine, you don’t have to prove anything.”  
  
“Holy shit, are we honestly doing this again?”

Emma’s head slams into the wall when she snaps up, Ruby all but snarling a few feet away. Killian sits up straighter. “I don’t think we’ve actually been introduced,” he says, standing up and offering Ruby his hand. She glares at it. “Killian Jones. I live next door.”  
  
“And want to keep flirting with Emma.”  
  
“Yes, that’s true.”

Ruby clearly isn’t ready for that particular brand of honesty. Neither is Emma. Her heart grows and shrinks and grows again, hammering against her chest in double time. “Em,” Ruby calls, bypassing Killian’s outstretched hand to kick at Emma’s outstretched legs. “Are you going insane? Honestly, tell me because I feel like I deserve to know at this point.”

Emma opens her mouth – her own pointed and vaguely sarcastic remark sitting on the tip of her tongue, but her eyes move to Ruby’s hands and the longer-than-usual nails at the end of her fingers. “Rubes,” she nods. “Look.”  
  
“Fucking a…”  
  
“Yeah, that’s something isn’t it? When is the next--”  
  
“--Tomorrow, actually.”

“Does someone want to explain what is going on?” Killian snaps, and Emma’s going to concuss herself if she keeps slamming her head into the wall. 

“Oh, uh, Ruby’s a werewolf,” she says. He can’t quite school his face on that one. It makes her smile. That feels wrong. 

“Em, are you fucking kidding me?” Ruby yells. She’s jumping again, bouncing up and down while Killian stares at Emma and the whole thing has dissolved into chaos rather quickly. 

“Should we worried about some kind of hallway transformation?” he asks. 

Emma’s head hurts. She’s not sure if that’s from the repeated hitting or the eye rolling or how small that type had been, although it may just be a perfect storm of all of that, and Killian’s lips quirk up when she looks at him. “That’s what the amulet is for,” she explains, nodding at the the stone clutched in Ruby’s hand. “So she can control it and--”  
  
“--Like wolfsbane potion?”  
  
“I need you to stop comparing everything to Harry Potter, it’s not like that.” Ruby makes another strangled noise, disbelief in her gaze when she realizes what _that_ means. Emma holds her hands up. “He can read Greek.”

Ruby stops making noise. At least any that are immediately threatening. “Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. And, I...well, I trust him.”

In the grand scheme of _everything_ , that’s definitely not the most surprising thing that has happened in the last few weeks, but it somewhere in the top five, at least, and Ruby’s mouth falling open is slightly offensive. 

“That so?”  
  
Emma’s eyes dart towards Killian. He nods. “Yeah,” she says. “I do, and I know Regina said we have to be focused on this and I am. I am all in on operation: save everyone, but I can’t read Greek and his roommate is marrying that librarian.”  
  
“Belle?”  
  
“Why do you know her name?”  
  
“Why don’t you? We’ve talked to her, like, sixty-two times.”

“She brings up a fair point, Swan,” Killian murmurs, moving back towards her and every instinct in Emma’s body, magical or otherwise, screams out to let her head loll to the side. So she can rest it against his leg. 

She doesn’t. So she’s at least got that going for her. 

Ruby nods approvingly. “Exactly. You know, maybe you’re not the absolute worst. You can stick around, sailor.”

Killian’s hand falls on Emma’s shoulder, gripping her like he’s trying to stay afloat and they all need to stop making water puns. “What?” Ruby asks. “That was funny.”  
  
“Not the only one making bad jokes,” Emma mumbles, tilting her head up. As soon as she fixes her magic and gets rid of the Dark One and there are no more imminent threats to most of society, she’s going to break down this wall. 

With her hands. 

“That turned out to be a far more accurate joke than I was anticipating,” Killian chuckles. “Alright, so this leaves us...where, exactly? Because we still don’t know if the crystal is even a real thing.”

“Oh my God, did you tell him everything?” Ruby screeches, Emma nodding before she finishes the question. She huffs, but it doesn’t sound entirely like exasperation, more like acceptance and Emma will have to thank her for that eventually. “Ok, well--it is kind of weird that your roommate is marrying Belle. And you were just...out here when Em was coming back from her Twinkie quest.”  
  
“Zebra Cakes.”  
  
“It’s also weird that you remembered that.”  
  
“She bought a lot.”  
  
“And am still sitting right here,” Emma points out, but Ruby barely acknowledges her. She’s staring at Killian instead, a penetrating gaze that looks a little predatory and a little defensive and the déjà vu has got to stop. 

“Wait say you, sailor?” Ruby asks. “You going to help? And not fuck this up for us?”  
  
“I don’t have any magic,” Killian says. “I’m not sure how I could possibly fuck it up for you.”  
  
Ruby hums noncommittally and the anxiety lingering in the pit of Emma’s stomach moves to wrap around several other internal organs. It’s the worst. “Alright,” Ruby mutters. “Well, I’m still not big on this whole fate thing, but there was a prophecy involved--did she tell you about that too?” Killian nods. “Figures,” she continues, “ok, you’re in, I guess. You better translate the hell out of the Greek.”  
  
Killian salutes. They order Chinese food. And he hands Emma the last fortune cookie without asking if she wants it. She totally wants it. 

“Thanks,” she says, letting her fingers brush across his and the spark that snaps there is obvious and visible and Emma is positive it has to be a trick of her eyes. It isn’t. She’s really bad at lying, even to herself. “It’s getting kind of late.”  
  
Ruby fell asleep twenty minutes earlier, curled into the corner of the living room with more blankets than one person should be allowed to use. 

“Yeah,” Killian breathes. He doesn’t move. He’s still staring at her fingers like Emma is going to combust. “What time tomorrow?”  
  
“It’s your job, not mine.”  
  
“Are you actually in law enforcement?”  
  
She laughs. “Yeah, actually. Even the magic folk need laws.”  
  
“And you’re the…”  
  
“Sheriff of Storybrooke.”  
  
Killian lets out a low whistle, thumb moving back and forth across the back of her wrist. “I’ll admit I’m a little intimidated by that kind of power.”  
  
“I’m not the mayor.”  
  
“There’s a mayor?”  
  
“It’s a real town,” she grins, and she’s not sure how they’ve gotten even closer. Her forehead is half an inch away from his, close enough she’s positive she can feel the heat radiating off him. “There’s just some caveats.”  
  
“Of the magical variety. Sheriff though, that sounds like an authority.”  
  
“Where are you going with this?”  
  
Killian shrugs – and there’s no explanation for how easy this is, like they’ve been having these kinds of conversations for their entire life. “If I tell you I have absolutely no idea, but I’m incredibly curious is that going to make you try and hit me again?”  
  
“That’s very dramatic. It’s not really hitting it’s--”  
  
“--Playful flirting?” His eyebrows defy modern science, twisting and jumping in time with Emma’s ridiculous pulse and she’s going to kiss him. Or he’s going to kiss her. It genuinely does not matter. So, naturally, it gets fucked up. 

“Can you guys be quiet for two seconds?” Ruby whines, burrowing further into her den of blankets. Emma sighs, embarrassment mingling with disappointment and neither of those emotions make sense for a grown woman who fate claims will save anyone, but she suddenly feels like a teenager caught making out with her boyfriend and they didn’t even get that far.

“Ten?” Killian asks. “I’ll bring caffeine.”  
  
“You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“I know a place. I’ll be the one on the other side of the door, ok? Try not to curse me when you open it.”

He’s as good as his word the next morning, although he is a few minutes late, kicking lightly at the bottom of her door and the smile he flashes Emma as soon as she opens it is equal parts stupid, charming and stupid again. Just for good measure. 

“Sorry I’m late. Too much stuff to hold, couldn’t knock,” Killian explains, answering a question Emma apparently didn’t need to ask since he appears to be some kind of mind reader. And she doesn’t actually make any noise, which is probably good, but she hadn’t really noticed before and now she’s kind of staring and there’s only one hand. 

He’s only got one hand. 

He nods towards one of the cups, lips shifting again when her fingers brush his and she’s half a second away from calling him out on how absolutely, goddamn charming he is when--  
“There’s cinnamon in this.”

Killian blinks. “Yes.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Why?” Emma repeats, the word scratching its way out of her throat. It feels like an impossibly large question and an even bigger answer, his eyebrows flying into his hairline. “How did you know that?”  
  
“Do you need the coffee to make sense, Swan? You’re speaking in tongues.”

Emma sighs, kicking her foot forward until he gets the message and the cup is going to burn her hand. That probably isn’t a sign either. She’s a disaster. Honestly, prophecy can suck it. “How did you know about the cinnamon thing?” she presses, enunciating every syllable for emphasis. 

Killian laughs. 

It’s kind of offensive. It’s way too early for quasi-strangers that she inexplicably trusts with her deepest secrets to be laughing at her coffee habits. 

And yet…

“Are you suggesting that you’re the only person who puts cinnamon powder in their coffee?” Killian asks. “That’s awfully presumptuous, don’t you think?”  
  
“Do you?” He stops laughing. Emma grins triumphantly. “That’s not an answer you know,” she continues, bumping her shoulder against his and she’d barely noticed that they were still moving. They’re already at the bottom of the stairs, the sounds of the city making their way towards Emma’s ears. It’s getting more and more difficult to breathe. 

“No.”  
  
She almost doesn’t hear him at first – there’s a siren and people and then another siren because someone’s always seemingly getting arrested in Manhattan – but it’s a very slim _almost_ and Emma’s head nearly flies off her neck when she snaps her gaze towards Killian. He doesn’t blink when she looks at him, staring straight ahead with a certainty that’s kind of jarring and kind of comforting and the absolute, visual embodiment of an answer. 

He knew she put cinnamon in her coffee. 

Weird. And not. Very not. 

“Good guess, I suppose,” he mutters, but those words sound like a lie and taste bitter in the air around Emma and her magic needs to chill the fuck out. 

She hums, taking a sip of coffee. It’s good. Sweet. It wasn’t a guess. “Right, right. Well, more points to you or whatever. So you want to go find some crystal that can wreck people?”

Any hint of tension around them evaporates as soon as Emma’s tongue presses into the corner of her mouth, a look that makes Killian’s expression shift slightly, eyes going just a bit darker and brows pulling low and the fluttering in her stomach is oddly pleasant. 

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are, love.”  
  
“Incorrect. I think you think I’m hysterical and you want to help. You said so.”

That’s not flirting anymore. That’s serious – deathly, even, or however the Olympian crystal works. Emma’s still not really sure what the difference between a person’s life and their existence is and she’s only a little confused by the inclusion of souls in that, but she can’t think about any of those things when Killian’s eyes do something again. 

She takes a deep breath. 

“Yeah, I do,” he agrees softly, rocking forward like he’s trying to stop himself from touching her. It’s a dangerous line of thought. “Car or train?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Car? Or train? I was serious about the uptown D though, it’s the worst train in the world.”  
  
“Seems kind of dramatic, right?”  
  
Killian shakes his head. “No, worst train. Bar none. I don’t think they’ve even gotten any of the new ones on there. The map’s not digitized or anything and I live in fear of what exists on those seats. Probably the plague or something.”  
  
“Jeez.”  
  
“Car.”  
  
“Why did you ask then?”  
  
“I was being polite,” he says, flashing a smirk over his shoulder when he pulls open the door and Emma can’t roll her eyes when she’s being impossibly charmed by the whole thing. 

“Ah, so a gentleman, huh?”  
  
“Always.”  
  
Emma scoffs, but she knows he’s telling the truth – at least when it comes to her and neither one of them say anything about how close their legs are in the back seat of the cab he hails. He refuses to let her pay – “It’s absurd, you know I have a shit ton of money.” “How is that legal, Swan?” “I mean...it’s not really.” “Poor example of the law, love.” – tugging on her hand to weave through the crowd of people who seem to always be assembled in front of the library. 

“Wait, wait, what are you doing?”  
  
Killian hums in confusion, Emma yanking on the hand that’s never actually let go of hers because they’re not going to the room with the torture chairs. “What are you doing?” Emma asks again. “Don’t we have to go that way?”

She jerks her head back towards an ostentatious staircase with ridiculous banisters and what may actually be marble steps and the the tips of Killian’s ears go red. He squeezes one eye shut. “Uh, no,” he says, voice clipped and Emma can’t help the way her lips curl up. 

“No? I think you’ve got a plan again.”  
  
“Part.”  
  
“You ever think you’ll come up with a full plan?”  
  
He clicks his tongue, but Emma’s close to actually giggling at this point and she barely notices any of the tourists anymore. “I think that I have,” he twists, pulling out a set of keys from his back pocket with the fingers that are currently twisted up with Emma’s, “the ability to provide the lady a very quiet room with, at least, one kind of chair that is not a patented torture device.”  
  
“You’re sure you not magic?” Emma quips, ignoring what _those_ words do to her heart beat. She wishes the words would just be words. Maybe not in a library. “You seem awfully good at reading my mind.”  
  
“Those chairs are the worst. No give at them at all.”  
  
“Yeah, well, they’re wood or something.”  
  
“Wood,” Killian confirms, the hint of a laugh on the edge of his voice. Emma’s fairly certain she doesn’t imagine his head dropping closer to hers. It makes that one piece of hair drift dangerously close to his left eyebrow. “And old. We love old here, but they’re not exactly conducive to prolonged research. So,” he jangles the keys in front of Emma’s noise, “you’ve already stolen from CitiBank, what do you think about some casual breaking and entering?”  
  
Emma giggles. It’s ridiculous. And her magic flares to life again, the ends of her hair ruffling with the force of it until she’s a little worried she’s also inadvertently levitating. She’s not. That’s good.

Less good is the look on Killian’s face – slightly stunned and a little awed and he _can’t feel that_. That is impossible. People can’t feel other people’s magic. Unless…

No. _No._ Absolutely not. 

“Swan?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma nods, pushing the magic back into the corners of her brains and her right heel. Like it’ll ground her that way. “Let’s break some laws.”

The whole thing is actually ridiculously easy. They get the scripts from the main desk, Killian grinning at a few more workers and making quiet requests that sound a bit more like demands and Emma probably shouldn’t be impressed by the whole thing. 

“You’re like...captain of the library,” she says, half a step behind him as he directs them down a hallway behind a different door. “How’d that happen?”

“You’re very loud.”  
  
“I’m curious. Not all of us are mind readers.”  
  
“That seems incorrect,” Killian objects, and he has to let go of her hand to get the keys while still holding everything else. Emma is not disappointed by that. Obviously. “Shouldn’t magic work that way?”  
  
Emma makes a contrary noise in the back of her throat. “No, no, you’re making sweeping judgments again. Magic’s very...particular, I guess. And personal. It settles into you and...I’m not very good at explaining it.”  
  
“I’m in no rush.”

The lock clicks, and Emma only just notices that _this_ door has the words _barred from the public_ emblazoned on the slightly foggy glass. She mumbles several pointed opinions under her breath and every single one makes Killian laugh. 

So, points, or whatever. 

And it is quieter, fewer footsteps and soft lights and the chair behind the far-too-large desk in the corner has padding. 

“Oh shit, that looks comfortable,” Emma mutters before she can stop herself. Killian’s hand tightens when he laughs, head thrown back with ease and a distinct lack of any concern regarding the end of the world or the questionably late appearance of the Dark One. 

“That was the point, love. C’mon, sit. Explain the particulars of magic to me.”

Emma does as instructed – only because her back is starting to ache again and she does her best not to audibly groan at how absurdly comfortable the chair is. Killian smirks. “You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” she points out, swinging her feet onto the edge of the desk. If only because she’s fairly certain it will make the smirk more powerful. She’s not disappointed. 

“I love watching a plan come together, that’s why.”

“Yuh huh. And avoiding my questions, it seems.”  
  
“I think we may be running at the same pace on that one, actually.”  
  
“How’d you end up at the library?” Emma asks, doing her best not to make it sound like an accusation. Or an interrogation. “Doesn’t seem…”

Killian’s eyebrows jump. She’s given the smirk too much power. “Doesn’t seem like what?”  
  
“I mean...ok, well, you brought it up. You said that _some guy_ wasn’t the worst thing you’d ever been called. So, like...what’s the worst?”  
  
“You’re very curious aren’t you?”  
  
“I just like to know who I’m talking to.”  
  
“Is that a law enforcement thing?” Killian counters, and they’re going in circles. Ruby’s going to be very annoyed if they don’t translate anything. “Or just a magic thing? A need for even more power?”  
  
His voice turns hard as he continues talking, an edge that wasn’t there when his fingers were laced through hers and Emma’s getting whiplash from it. “Wow,” she breathes. “That’s kind of a dick move.”  
  
Killian sighs, body sagging like he’s holding the world’s heaviest weight. “Yeah, it absolutely is. I--um, well it’s not a good story.”  
  
“I told you that I’m the prophesized Savior of magic yesterday and then couldn’t actually prove that I’m capable of doing magic. That’s not the best story either.”  
  
He doesn’t object, but Emma knows he wants to, is undeniably convinced that the story she’s about to hear is completely and utterly depressing and she’s only a little disappointed to be proved right. “I wasn’t lying about the Navy,” Killian starts, moving around the desk until he’s perched on the edge and neither one of them point out that his hand lands on her shin. “Enlisted as soon as I could, followed my brother and--”  
  
“--What’s your brother’s name?”  
  
“It was Liam.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
HIs smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He squeezes his hand. “Right,” Killian says, hissing in a breath of air through his teeth. “We were--poor’s not really the right word. It was...bad. But I was young and didn’t realize at first and then Liam enlisted and it was a little better, until it wasn’t and--”

He cuts himself off, face turning pained and Emma doesn’t think. She moves, feet landing on the floor with a thud and her arm moves of its own volition, like there are magnets there or, more likely, magic and Killian presses his cheek against her palm as soon as her skin touches stubble. 

_Like they’ve done this before_.

His fingers are cold when they wrap around her wrist. 

“Anyway,” he continues brusquely, “Liam was dead and I was...drowning. God, that’s not even clever.” Emma chuckles, finally letting her forehead rest against his and she’s moved between his legs at some point, an arm around her waist that doesn’t feel strange at all. “It’s almost true though. I did not--”  
  
“--Cope?”  
  
He nods, eyes flitting down to the plastic at the end of his arm and Emma’s barely noticed it. Really. She’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. “I ran. Which, as you’d probably guess, is generally frowned on by the Navy and most of the armed services. Those in charge don’t really appreciate when you refuse to be held accountable for your actions. I’m not--I’d rather not be told what to do anymore.”  
  
“That’s understandable.”  
  
Killian jerks back like he’s been shocked, eyes wide and impossibly blue and Emma _knows_ he can hear the magic singing in her veins. “It is,” she adds. “I--well, I get it, I mean. That’s...I’ve never really had something like that, but I...well, I said magic is personal right?” He nods, gaze turning piercing the longer he stares at her. “It is. And my magic has always been instinct. No thinking, just surges of power. But it’s also only ever been mine. Sometimes, when there’s a deep connection between people, they can feel it. David and Mary Margaret are constantly aware of where the other person is.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound like it would be enjoyable at all times, love,” Killian reasons. HIs thumb is doing that thing again. 

“Eh, it’s more just...knowing that the other person can feel it. Does that make sense?” Another nod. Maybe the mind reading thing is paying off. “Because that means there’s that connection. That...I have no idea how I got to Storybrooke.”  
  
Killian blinks. “I don’t understand.”  
  
“Neither do I, honestly. I know I’ve been there for years, remember things with Ruby and Mary Margaret and even Regina, but I don’t...the specifics of it don’t make much sense.”  
  
“And you don’t…”  
  
“You need to finish your sentences,” Emma mutters, curling her fingers around the front of his jacket. “But, uh, no. Not that I’m aware of.”  
  
“You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

She scrunches her nose. “I’ve got a very strong hunch. And, no, I have no idea about parents or seemingly any family and it’s…well, lonely is depressing, isn’t it?”  
  
“A little.”  
  
“You’re no help at all,” Emma says, and she can’t move her hands. He’s still holding onto her, nearly every inch of him pressed up against every inch of her. It leaves her breathless and a little overheated and-- “You still didn’t tell me how you became captain of the library? What were you in the Navy, by the way? Like...an officer? Was there a uniform?”  
  
“It’s the Navy, love, of course there was a uniform.”  
  
She’s going to self combust. 

“Not an answer.”  
  
“I think you’re thinking about me in uniform.”  
  
“Presumptuous.”  
  
The smirk has taken on a life of its own – aided by ridiculous eyebrows and a color Emma is certain she’s never seen before, particularly when his eyes flicker towards the lip she’s biting again. “Lieutenant,” Killian mutters, and if Emma was concerned about souls before it’s nothing to what she feels now, as if she’s being twisted and yanked and gravity appears to have disappeared entirely. “I was a lieutenant when I left.”  
  
She nods dumbly, trying to get her brain to stay on this plane of existence, a challenge she didn’t entirely expect after having just one cup of coffee that morning. 

“I ended up in New York by chance,” Killian continues. “Bounced around a few other cities and thought about staying in Boston for a little while because, well, there’s water there, but...I started stacking books for minimum wage her and then just--”

“--Became captain of the library,” Emma finishes. Her throat is shrinking. That may just be her lungs. 

“You’re giving me far too much credit, Swan. I just like knowing things.”  
  
“Because you’re a nerd.”  
  
He grins – and it would be so easy to kiss him, a quick head tilt and a push of her fingers in his hair, the grip on his jacket tightening slightly with the force of how much she wants to do just that, but Emma’s still teetering on the edge of something that may honestly be insanity and she...has to save the goddamn world. 

“Wait until we translate things and then come back with the pointed insults.” Emma nods, a rushing in her ears and she’s glad for the desk so she doesn't fall over. And Killian’s arm. “Swan,” he says lightly, fingers ghosting over her spine, “what are you thinking, love?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“You’re a rather terrible liar. Everything you’re thinking, straight on your face and--”

She’s going to scream. He won’t finish his sentences and her magic will not do what she wants and the world genuinely cannot wait any longer. “Let’s translate and then I’ll, um...I’ll buy you coffee once we know if I can wreck the Dark One, ok?”  
  
The smirk is a genuine smile. It’s worse. Better. Emma clearly needs to read more. 

“Of course,” Killian says, moving her back into the chair and her back appreciates that. “Give me a couple minutes, ok?”

It doesn’t even take a few minutes. Emma’s a little annoyed by that and just...everything, because the, approximately, two seconds it takes for Killian’s eyes to scan the research in front of them leads to one very obvious and world-ending realization--

“It’s broken.”  
  
Emma waves both her hands in the air, jumping out of the chair in the process. “What is?”  
  
“The Olympian crystal,” Killian answers, tugging on the hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s broken. By Zeus himself, if I’m reading this right.”  
  
“And we’re sure you’re doing that?”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“I know, I know,” she sighs, and that one cup of coffee was not nearly enough. “So what--why was Zeus an ass about this?”  
  
“Well, you’ll find that, more often than not, that was just his normal state of being, but, according to this particular legend, Hades had used the crystal to destroy Kronos.”  
  
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”  
  
Killian smiles, moving back into her space and it takes some finangling to get into the chair with her perched on his leg. _Strangers. Neighbors. Obviously not that_. The light in the corner of the room flickers. “He was a Titan,” Killian explains. “Father of several gods, including Zeus and Hades and, if you don’t want to interrupt me again, was also kind of a dick.”  
  
“Seems to be a trend.”  
  
“It’s par for the course when it comes to mythology, I’m afraid.” Emma scoffs, letting her head loll onto his shoulder. “Anyway, what I just read claims that Kronos had chosen Zeus to be king of Olympus and Hades didn’t particularly like it. So. He tried to use the crystal to destroy Zeus. Only it didn’t work and Zeus was well...Zeus.”  
  
“Meaning?”  
  
“Meaning he destroyed the crystal so Hades couldn’t destroy him. Self defense.”  
  
“He’s a god,” Emma argues. “That’s bullshit. So there’s no crystal? Nothing? Not even pieces I could find somewhere?” 

Killian shakes his head. “It’s in the Underworld.”  
  
“Oh, well, yeah, naturally. Fucking hell.”  
  
“So, uh...it seems in order to get the shards of the crystal from Hades, you’d...you know, have to actually die.”  
  
“I understand how the Underworld works,” Emma snaps, more ridiculous eyebrow movement and lip quirks and she’s going to fall on the floor. It’s the most absurd sentence in a conversation about Greek gods. “God, don’t look at me like that.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“I don’t know. Like...I can only say mind reader so many times before it starts to get redundant.”

Killian chuckles, nosing at the curve of her shoulders and Emma’s fingers are going to actually spark if she doesn’t get them in his hair sometime soon. “God forbid we start getting redundant. So, what now, Swan?”  
  
That’s not the question she expects. 

“What?”  
  
“Well, it seems to me the Underworld option is a bit out of the realm of possibility--”  
  
“--And possibly not even true.”  
  
She’s starting to resent the tongue click a little bit, leaning back when Killian does it again. His eyes are wide. And she hadn’t been that off about the finger sparking thing. 

Emma mumbles a few curses under her breath, including some rather scathing opinions about every Greek god she can think of, but the light in her hand doesn’t disappear and the bulb on the other side of the room shatters loudly. 

“Holy fuck,” she breathes, every letter shaking its way out of her. “What the hell, what the hell, what the hell?”

She tries to jump again, is determined to pace out the energy she can feel shooting up and down her spine and every single one of her limbs, but the arm around her waist is too tight and the look on his face makes Emma freeze.  
  
“Hey, hey, relax,” Killian says, but there’s a worry to his voice that makes Emma’s lungs pinch again. “It’s ok. It’s ok. You’re ok, just breathe.”

She doesn’t follow instructions. Maybe they’re both bad at that. 

“Emma, c’mon, look at me, love. It’s fine. That wasn’t you.”

There’s a sudden surplus of oxygen in her lungs – a complete turnaround that’s jarring and terrifying and the look on Killian’s face is dangerously close to pleading. Because it doesn’t make sense. He couldn’t know that. 

“Right at me,” he whispers, fingers moving across her like he’s trying to make sure she’s still there or something as equally impossible as him knowing what magic was _her_ magic. It certainly wasn’t the light bulb thing. “Count in three and exhale five.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Emma mumbles. Her head falls forward again, colliding with his collarbone and the skin under her his warm. 

She needs to stop making so many sun puns in her head. 

“Everything about this has been ridiculous.”  
  
“God, it’s really frustrating when you’re right.”

He laughs again, easier than it’s been all day and the crinkles around his eyes are distracting. “You’re not counting, love.”  
  
“And you’re endearment obsessed.”

Killian hums, fingers cupping her elbow because Emma’s never actually let go of his jacket and it takes approximately one deep breath, the word _cyan_ flashing across her brain and the magic in the air turning electric for everything to feel as if it’s, finally, settled. 

“You alright?” Killian asks lightly, and Emma licks her lips before she answers. She’s got absolutely-no-fucking idea. 

“Where’d you learn the breathing thing?”  
  
“Honestly?”  
  
“No point in beating around metaphorical bushes, right?”  
  
She can see his jaw tense, lips pressed together until they’re barely more than a line and that’s kind of...awful. “Right,” he sighs. “I, uh...have no idea. Just felt like the right thing to say.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“Yeah. Well--that’s magic, huh?”  
  
“Something like that,” Emma says, anxious energy curling in the pit of her stomach. He’s still staring at her like he’s surprised she’s there. She’s kind of surprised he hasn’t run. Or she hasn’t run. God, they’re a mess. “Thanks for the help. With the uh...breathing thing.”  
  
Emma is going to curse his tongue. It darts between his lips and clicks in reproach because they both know they were half a second away from _something_ and he knew what to say and none of this makes sense. They’ve got to get out of that rom – the walls feel like they’re closing in, air turning heavy and a little muggy, but there’s still an arm wrapped around her middle, skin tingling and pulse racing and--

“My pleasure.”  
  
Emma scoffs because none of this is fun and he can’t possibly keep staring at her like that. It’s unnatural. It’s--  
  
“Ah, fuck it,” Emma mutters, and the rest is only slightly irrational. All things considered. She yanks on the front of his jacket, pulling him forward when he lets out a soft grunt of surprise and that’s the only sound she registers until her brain realizes _she’s_ the one making the sounds, a groan and something that might actually be a moan because Killian is impossibly good at kissing her. 

Emma’s fingers fly into his hair, carding through strands and scratching lightly at the back of his head. She still doesn’t let go of the jacket. His teeth nip at her lower lip, nose pressed against her cheek and she can feel him inhale, like he’s trying to breathe her in. 

She honestly wouldn’t object. 

They only pull apart so they can fall back together, a steady rhythm of lips and tongue and slightly heaving shoulders. She can feel his fingers curl around the back of her head, holding her there with a desperation that should probably be far more terrifying than it is. Instead, it’s almost comforting, like he wants her there or _needs_ her there and Emma’s magic rushes through every inch of her, a burst of power and flare of belief and they’re both going to knock this goddamn chair over.

They rock back and forth, trying to occupy the same space and it’s as if someone’s hit some kind of switch. Or moved them to the next level. Of making out. And possibly getting this jacket out of the way. 

Killian’s fingers brush over skin, working a sound out of Emma that she refuses to be held accountable for, particularly when she can feel his smile against her mouth. 

“That’s stupid,” Emma grumbles, drawing a laugh out of him and the sound feels like it works its way into the very middle of her, settling between the spaces in her ribs and dousing out that nervous, anxious feeling lingering in her stomach. 

“You can’t say things like that, Swan, you’ll give a man a complex.”  
  
“Yuh huh, you seem to be really lacking confidence.”  
  
“Maybe I’m just particularly inspired.”  
  
“What a line.”

He leans back, lips far too red and gaze drifting a little bit towards wrecked in a way that makes Emma wonder if they do, in fact, have to leave this room. “That’s not what it is,” Killian says, another promise she hopes she’s not imagining. “I, um...I think I could--”  
  
And just like that, the _whatever_ is gone completely and the darkness on the edge of Emma’s vision starts to creep back in and the ringing phone in her pocket is impossibly loud.

“--Don’t,” she warns. “Don’t say things you can’t actually mean.”  
  
“Swan…”  
  
She shakes her head quickly, standing up and all but slamming the phone against her ear. “What?”

The scream she hears makes Emma’s knees buckle, a piercing sound that’s nothing short of absolutely terrified. “Emma,” Ruby cries, other voices in the background and a few grunts of pain from a person she can’t distinguish. “Minions. Now. Here. Now!”

The line goes dead, but that may be because Emma’s dropped her goddamn phone and she needs to stop doing that. 

“Swan--” Killian snaps his jaw shut as soon as he sees whatever look has landed on her face and she barely gets her _hang onto me_ out before she’s lacing her fingers through his and squeezing her eyes closed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are real nice and it's real nice that you keep reading all these words I throw at the internet. Things are about to get real exciting. 
> 
> (Also I didn't mention before, but updates Tuesday & Friday because of who I am as a person)
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	3. Chapter 3

“Holy fuck.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, but she can’t entirely blame Killian because her own knees are shaking perilously underneath her and it feels as if her heart is doing a very good job of beating its way directly out of her chest. 

“C’mon, it wasn’t really that bad.”  
  
“Are you kidding me?”   
  
“You’re being dramatic,” Emma says evenly, and the lie makes her tongue feel like it’s weighed down by, well, several thousand weights. She’s obviously lost any creativity she had in the last few seconds of instinct-induced magic and it had never been that easy. 

She refuses to consider why that is, exactly. It’s an obvious answer anyway. 

“Fuck, shit, goddamn,” Killian continues, each curse more desperate than the last. His hand tightens around Emma’s, gripping her fingers tightly enough that more than a few of her knuckles crack and she hisses in a breath, trying to mask her own pain and fear and it doesn’t take him more than a moment to realize what he’s done. He drops her hand like he’s been sparked. 

Or teleported downtown. By magic. Her magic. 

His head snaps towards her, all wide eyes and parted lips and Emma can hear the pattern of his breathing. Irregular. It makes her lungs ache. 

“I’m sorry, love,” he breathes, not sounding quite like him. At least not the _him_ that he’s been since Emma opened her door that morning. His voice drops low, every letter tinged with an emotion that does not make sense at all. And yet...Emma’s brain latches onto it, holding on tight enough to crack a few other things. 

Possibly her skull. 

Maybe this is all just the lingering effects of the concussion she inevitably sustained last night. 

“That’s ok,” Emma mumbles with a decidedly out-of-place shrug. “I probably should have warned you, I just--wait.” She nearly bites her tongue in half when her jaw snaps shut and it’s either a testament to her magic or a sign that she’s the world’s shittiest friend that Emma didn’t realize that she and Killian are entirely alone. 

In the apartment. 

Where she and Ruby are...living may not be the right word, exactly. God, that’s depressing. 

“Ruby said here,” Emma says, and she has to keep licking her lips. She’s panting. It can’t possibly be attractive. 

She is not worried about that. 

Probably. 

“She said here and now and minions.”  
  
Killian arches an eyebrow. “Like the cartoon?”   
  
“Oh my God, tell her that later, she’ll definitely appreciate it.” Emma exhales, likely doing more irreparable damage to her lungs and she wonders if it would freak Killian out even more if she tried to scratch her way out of her skin. 

It feels like there’s a spark underneath, an urge and a power and no amount of fluttering fingers or bobbing on her feet seems to help it. Emma shakes her arms at her side, letting her head rock back and forth as she tries to count inhales again without making it obvious. 

It doesn’t work. 

That’s disappointing. It seems to be a trend. 

“Why would Ruby say here if that wasn’t true?”  
  
Killian’s eyebrow doesn’t move. The other one joins the first instead, jumping into his hairline, and his eyes widen as soon as the first notes of music drift up the stairs towards the door Emma has only now just realized isn’t locked. 

Or closed all the way. 

“They were here,” Killian says, taking a step forward and letting the lock chain fall through his fingers. “And I don’t think they left willingly.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Look.” He nods towards the door frame, marks that weren’t there a few hours before. “Are those…”   
  
Emma nods dumbly, and maybe there’s a spell to reinforce her lungs or something. Like with steel. Or maybe she’ll just give herself gills. Cut out the lung issue completely. She’ll have to ask Regina. “Those are claw marks,” she whispers, tracing over the ridges with the pads of her fingers. “That’s--Rubes wouldn’t do that. Not here. Not in the middle of the goddamn city.”   
  
“You said that amulet helped her control things, right? Made it so she could decide how her transformation worked?”   
  
Another nod. Emma can’t actually think of anything else to do. She feels a little frozen. 

“What would happen if the amulet wasn’t there?” Killian asks. “If someone took it off?”  
  
It’s a shake that time – of disbelief, Emma’s hair hitting her in the cheek when she moves and, really, that almost makes sense, some kind of lame self-inflicted punishment because every thing they’ve done has only seemed to get them further away from finding any sort of solution. 

She feels like she’s been tossed in a ditch. And it’s muddy. Her socks are very wet in this metaphor. 

“Who would know?” Emma challenges, and now the whiplash of emotions is her own doing. Her frustration turns to anger almost immediately, a blazing burst of heat that scorches its way down her neck and rattles down each of her vertebrae, lingering at the base of her spine like a dull flame. She can feel her eyes widen, an unspoken challenge to a man who’s done nothing but offer to help and can feel her magic. 

Probably. 

He hasn’t actually admitted to that yet. 

She hasn’t let him. 

That’s neither here nor there. 

“About Ruby?”

Emma nods, a sarcastic noise lingering in the back of her throat. “Everyone who knows that magic is a thing is in Storybrooke. Waiting for us to save all of them. No one here would know, let alone believe it, even if they are minions, I mean that’s--”  
  
She tastes blood when her teeth find her tongue again, wincing at the look on Killian’s face. “I’m really freaking out,” Emma mutters, like that’s an excuse. “Sorry for being a dick.”   
  
“You’re not, Swan. Blunt, but understandably given the circumstance. And as much as I hate to punch holes in your theory, there are plenty of people out there who would be more than willing to believe that a werewolf is living in a slightly ramshackle apartment on the Lower East Side.”   
  
Emma opens her mouth to object – something about no one knowing her and Ruby, but that argument evaporates as well because Killian _knew_ her and that kiss in the library did not feel like a first kiss. It felt like a memory or a want, practiced ease and confident movements. There was no caution, no awkward fumbling or worries about what to do with their hands. It felt like them. As if there could be a them. 

Or had been. 

Past tense. 

“I--” Emma starts and, she’s certain, eventually, she’ll finish her sentences. As it is, the music is getting even louder and--”Is that Freddie Mercury?”

Killian blinks, the pinch between his eyebrows returning. It happens, Emma has realized, when he’s a slightly surprised, like it exists simply to process information, and his hand falls to her waist almost immediately. 

He hooks his foot around the bottom of the door, swinging it open and leaning towards the hall with Emma flush against his chest. She squirms, a mumbled _I have as much right to see as you do_ , but that only makes his arm wrap around her, tight enough that she’s briefly worried about the state of her spleen.  
  
“God, relax with your feats of strength,” she hisses, pointedly ignoring his sigh of indignation. 

“Swan, I’m trying to listen.”  
  
“To Freddie Mercury?”   
  
“To the music that is masking whatever is happening downstairs.”

She kicks him. Hard. Or, as hard as she can, which, admittedly is not that hard when her range of movement is limited, but Emma does her best and the heat at her spine hasn’t disappeared. It’s like she’s been put on simmer, waiting for someone to flick the burner back on and honestly she really needs to work on her metaphors. 

These are just awful. They don’t even make sense. 

“Emma,” Killian mutters, and she hears it for the reprimand it is. 

“Ok, first of all, you don’t not get to go all alpha-male on me. That is absurd. Out of the two of us, who has magic here?” She waits for an answer she knows she’s not going to get because in the few hours she’s spent with Killian Jones she’s also come to realize that he’s almost as stubborn as she is. Emma grins triumphantly. “And two, what do you mean whatever is happening downstairs? What’s downstairs?”  
Killian doesn’t respond. Emma kicks him again. 

“Swan, I swear to God if you don’t stop assaulting me--”  
  
“--What? What are you going to do? Because again, out of the two of us, who is actual law enforcement?”

He scowls at her. “You’ve stolen enough money from that ATM to warrant several felonies at this point, love. And--” 

The music grows, blasting like it’s coming from a dozen professional-grade speakers and Emma has no idea what sound she makes, but it doesn’t feel particularly pleasant. It feels like a sigh and a groan and absolute and complete desperation. Her head falls onto Killian’s chest. She’s fairly certain he kisses the top of her hair. 

That may be wishful thinking. 

“Magic,” Emma says, face pressed into Killian’s jacket. She’s counting inhales again. “That’s magic. God...what the fuck Freddie Mercury.”  
  
“I don’t think it’s him personally, love.”   
  
“You really love arguing with me, huh?”   
  
He definitely kisses her hair that time, a quick brush of lips and squeeze of the hand that never moved away from her. “You never noticed the bar, huh? I suppose you’ve had your mind on a few other things, though.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“You think you can do that light thing in your hand again? That was pretty impressive, might scare off whatever werewolf freaks are downstairs.”   
  
“Are you speaking in Greek?”

Killian rolls his shoulder, trying to get Emma to lift her head, but she’s definitely the more stubborn of the two. She groans while she moves, twisting her wrist and the ball of light in her palm is warm, a pulse to it that matches up with her own and every inch of her feels as if it’s half a moment away from combusting. 

“See,” Killian grins, lacing his fingers through hers and neither one of them bothers to close the apartment door behind them. “Impressive.”

They don’t move the way she expects, which Emma should really be more prepared for at this point, walking towards a staircase she wasn’t aware existed until that very moment. The music gets louder with every step they take, a never-ending loop of _Somebody to Love_ , and voices talking intently. 

Emma doesn’t mean to clutch Killian’s hand as tightly as she knows she is, but she’s got an awful feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her chest feels tight, ribs pinching internal organs they should never come in contact with and--

“What is this?” Emma asks, doing her best to keep her voice quiet. They’ve found their way into some kind of back room, stone walls and damp air and Killian’s answering smile should not be that effective. She rolls her eyes again. To combat it, or whatever. 

“It’s a bootleggers basement.”  
  
“Are you fucking kidding me?”   
  
He flashes her another smile – lazy and lopsided and far too confident to be fair. “Would I do that?”

“I’ve got absolutely no idea,” Emma admits. Killian’s shoulders sag. “But, uh...I really don’t think so. I...well, I wasn’t lying to Rubes yesterday, I trust you and I know--”  
  
“--I’m not sure we have enough time for you to get sentimental on me, Swan.”

She groans. “I’m trying to be nice. I--well, I did yank you around via magic. And how did you know this was here?”  
  
“Not content to assume that I just know everything, huh?”   
  
“Killian.”   
  
He grins, tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth. “There are dozens of places like this smattered across the city, but especially further downtown where it was easier to get the alcohol off barges near the docks. People willing to do anything for a drink at that point, you know? Plus, places like this are always rife with information. Chatty folk when they’re drunk.”

“What are you saying?”

“You really didn’t realize there was a bar under the apartment you were living in? Scarlet will be very disappointed.”  
  
“Like you said, I’ve been kind of busy.”   
  
Killian hums, lower lip jutted out slightly. Emma kind of wants to bite it. That feels a little violent. And she should probably be saving any of _those_ particular tendencies for whatever is happening on the other side of the basement wall. 

As it is, what’s happening on the other side of the basement wall does not sound pleasant. That’s an understatement. Emma strains to put a name to the noise just barely finding its way to her ears, not entirely sure she wants to because the noise sounds painful and something akin to a whimper and--

“That’s not Ruby,” Emma says, jerking her head around to find all the color has rushed out of Killian’s face. He doesn’t let go of her hand when he dashes forward, pulling Emma with him to press against the wall. 

“What the fuck is happening? Are you people insane?”  
  
Emma’s laugh is as out of place as it is possible for one thing to be, but the voice sounds less fearful and more furious. She can appreciate that. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that’s Scarlet, right?” 

Killian nods, and Emma doesn’t object when he pulls her back against his side – as if that makes any of this easier. “It’s his bar,” he explains. “He’s probably pissed they’re fucking with his juke box.”  
  
“Ah, so it’s really not Freddie Mercury, then?”   
  
“Unless you’re suddenly capable of reviving the dead with your very impressive magic, I’m afraid it’s just Queen's Greatest Hits.”

Emma sticks her tongue out. 

And it’s almost flirting again, almost normal, almost _ok_ , but then Scarlet’s voice turns into Scarlet yelling and pleading and–”No, no, no, just...leave her alone! She doesn’t have anything to do with this. You can...you can take whatever you want. Take the money. There’s not--well, there’s not a ton there, but--”   
  
“--You think we want your money?”

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles, at the new voice joining the fray. It’s a woman, that much she can tell, but she can’t place the tone or the timbre and she’s starting to lose feeling in her left hand. “Killian,” Emma continues softly. He’s staring straight ahead, a tension in his jaw that can’t possibly be good for his teeth. “Hey, what’s going on?”  
  
He shakes his head – he must, because that one piece of hair designed solely to ruin Emma’s entire life, moves slightly, brushing over his forehead and drifting towards his eyebrows, and he flinches when her hand lands on his cheek again. 

“Do you know who that is?”  
  
“No,” he answers, sounding unsure of the word. 

“No? I hate to punch holes in your theory, but it kind of sounds like you do. And, uh...you know, if you’ve got some clues as to how to defeat whatever is happening over there, then that’d be--”  
  
“--I don’t know, Emma.”   
  
She blinks at the sound of his voice, an absolute that makes her magic spark. In defense. Of him. “Huh,” she muses. “Wow, you’re a shit liar, you know that?”   
  
“You don’t know me well enough to say that.”   
  
“And yet here we are. With my werewolf best friend missing and your roommate being robbed and--”

Emma makes a noise when she’s cut off, a cry of frustration that doesn’t do them any favors in their continued hiding spot, but the howl that comes from the other side of the door is loud and a little feral and there’s more than one. 

Her eyes flicker back up towards Killian, his lips pressed together tightly enough that they almost disappear entirely. He presses a finger to his mouth, a silent command she doesn't appreciate very much, until he’s leaning forward, another kiss pressed to her temple and she can barely hear the words he whispers in her ear. 

That song is still playing. 

“Can you do something about this wall?” 

“What?” Emma balks. 

“The wall, love. I think we may be able to maintain the element of surprise if we don’t come waltzing through the door.”  
  
“God, who is waltzing anywhere?”   
  
Killian glares at her. Emma sticks her tongue out. “The wall, Swan. If you can do something about it, get rid of it for a moment--”   
  
“--What kind of witch do you think I am that I can’t get rid of a wall?”   
  
“I swear, if you don’t stop interrupting me,” he warns, but that’s as much as he gets out before he ducks his head and the kissing is even more out of place than the laughing was. It’s different than the first kiss that might not have been that, not nearly as long because the whimpering is back and Will is shouting again and Emma’s got a growing suspicion that there are several dogs in the bar she didn’t realize was there, but it’s _searing_ in a way that sends a rush of heat and want through every one of her muscles, lingering in her veins and settling into her bloodstream like it’s supposed to be there. 

He nips at her lip again, tongue brushing over the seam of her mouth, and Emma squeezes her eyes shut as soon as they pull apart, desperate to brand the feeling into her memory. 

She’s got a growing suspicion about that too. It doesn’t feel like she actually has to. 

“That was ridiculous,” Emma mutters, drawing a cynical laugh out of Killian. He kisses her again. 

“A complex, love, honestly.”  
  
She rolls her eyes, but it’s getting difficult to ignore whatever her heart is doing and she winks when she presses her palm flat against the wall behind her. 

And everything goes to complete and absolute shit. 

Quickly. 

It’s efficient, at least. 

The scene in front of them is nothing short of chaotic, chairs toppled and claw marks in more than one table and half of those tables are laying on their side. Belle is far too pale to be healthy, a gash in her leg that does not look like it was created by any sort of human. She’s breathing heavily, as if each inhale is a challenge, hair plastered to her head where its laying against the bar floor. 

Will – Emma assumes it’s Will, there’s no other man in the bar – doesn’t look much better, shoulders heaving and eyes manic as he tries to move towards her. The woman sitting on the edge of bar lets out a low _tsk, tsk_ at that, holding what appears to be a soda gun in her hand. She slams her thumb onto one of the buttons, a stream of water flying farther than it has any right to and Emma’s going to pass out from a lack of oxygen. 

“Breathe, love,” Killian whispers. She doesn’t. 

Will sputters as the water continues to slam into his face, trying to pull away, but the water follows his every move and it only takes a moment for the woman on the bar to realize her audience has grown. She perks up as soon as her eyes land on Killian and Emma, a knowing smile that does not look human slinking across her face. She’s a little older than Emma, feet swinging in the air, and arms crossed lightly over the green blazer she’s wearing. The fabric doesn’t look normal though, a shine to it that makes Emma’s hackles rise in self-defense. 

She’s got absolutely no idea where her hackles are. 

That’s probably more a Ruby thing at this point anyway. Because Ruby, is in fact, not Ruby anymore – crouched in the corner of the bar with another woman staring intently at her. She’s practically salivating, the look of longing on her face wholly abnormal in a string of absolutely impossible things, and the coat she’s got on must weigh at least ten pounds. 

It’s fur. 

And oddly similar to the fur of the dogs yanking on the leash in her hand. 

“What the--” Emma starts, another cut-off sentence as soon as the dog lady spins on the spot. She chuckles lightly, presumably at the stunned look on Emma and Killian’s face, and lets up a bit on the leash. The dogs lunge, jaws snapping and teeth bared and Emma doesn’t think, she throws both her hands up and lets Killian’s arm wrap around her middle and the dogs don’t get any closer. 

“Interesting,” the dog lady murmurs, and there’s got to be a better name for her than that. “He’ll be very intrigued to know how well your magic is fostering still, Savior.”

Ruby snarls. As a werewolf. 

“Savior,” Emma repeats. “How do you know that?”  
  
The woman on the bar takes her thumb off the soda gun, hopping down lightly and Emma’s eyes bug when she realizes she’s not wearing shoes. She steps in every single puddle, a wandering path across the bar until she’s only a few inches away and her gaze doesn’t land on Emma. That’s surprising. 

“Captain,” she says instead, eyes flitting across Killian with interest, “I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?”

Killian’s entire body tenses, chin lifting in something that almost looks like defiance. The fingers wrapped around Emma’s flutter at his side, shifting with an energy that makes her wonder what he’s reaching for. 

“I have no idea who you are,” he sneers. “What are you doing here?”  
  
The woman’s smile widens. “Oh, it took some time, I’ll admit, but that’s mostly your fault now, isn’t it? Ahahaha,” she says with a quick shake of her head and flick of her wrist. The water at her feet flies up, smacking Killian in the face and making him cough. “And please hold all your questions until the end.”   
  
“We don’t have time for this,” the dog lady growls, but that may actually be the dogs and Ruby is chained up as well. “We need to make the deal.”   
  
“No, no, no, I’ve waited a lifetime for this. I’m going to get what I want.”   
  
“You’re delusional,” Killian challenges, and Emma wishes he’d stop antagonizing the clearly magical villain. 

She tries to move her hand without drawing attention to herself – an attempt to stop the blood pooling underneath Belle’s knee, but one of the dogs barks again and the dog lady’s laugh is the worst of all of them. It’s far too soft. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to help quite yet, Savior. It’ll take a bit longer for her to bleed out anyway. My darling didn’t bite her too deep, did he?”

The dog in question whines in response, another chomp of his jaws. Belle gets paler. 

“What the hell is happening?” Will demands, drawing out every letter. Emma hopes his entire alcohol stock wasn’t destroyed. He deserves more than one drink. “Who the fuck are you people?”  
  
“All in good time,” the woman with the sparkly jacket says. That’s still not the right description, Emma’s eyes narrowing as she tries to figure out what, exactly, the fabric is made of. It shimmers and shines, flickering in the light every time she moves, as if it’s retaining water and Emma’s quiet breath of understanding isn’t all that quiet. 

“Scales,” she says. “Those are scales.”  
  
The woman’s smile flickers. 

“She thinks she’s Ursula,” Belle mutters, not lifting her head off the floor. “She’s...the water thing, the scales. Even the music.”  
  
“Music?” Will repeats dumbly. “What about the music?”   
  
Emma’s brain is firing on neurons she didn’t realize she possessed until that very moment, bits of something that she’s fairly certain are memories but are entirely unfamiliar, slamming into every corner of her skull, desperate to be remembered and acknowledged. She chews on her lip, drawing more blood and that’s probably a bad move with possibly blood-thirsty dogs a few feet away, but she needs something to settle her nerves and her emotion. 

And her magic. 

The glow in the palm of her hand turns blinding, as if someone deposited a star on her skin. Will curses at the flash of light, the dogs not taking too kindly to it either, but Ursula just laughs under her breath and the music gets louder. 

It’s the same goddamn song.   
  
“A siren,” Killian whispers, staring at Emma like that should be an answer. It is. She lets go of her lip. “Ursula is a siren. A sea witch, that could control music and send sailors to their demise. She had the power of the seas at her disposal, could warp anything with water if the price was right. It was an old legend that--”   
  
“--Well, that’s rude isn’t it, Captain?”   
  
He’s going to have to go to the dentist after this. It can’t possibly be good to be putting so much pressure on his molars. 

Killian looks up – gaze set and steady, but his fingers are still moving and Emma’s starting to lose feeling in her limbs. “You’re acting like you know me,” he accuses. “That’s not--”

“--Oh, don’t say impossible,” Ursula laughs. “That’s insulting to both of us. And you’re lovely...well, what would we call her?” She nods in Emma’s direction, eyes bright. “Girlfriend is far too dull after everything you did, don’t you think?”

Killian doesn’t respond. Emma’s not sure he can. That’s fair. She’s got no idea what the fuck is going on. 

“What do you think, Cruella?” Ursula continues, seemingly content to linger in the _villain soliloquy_ portion of the evening. Emma’s eyes flit around the bar, looking for an escape route or another bootleggers basement and there isn't anything. They're going to have to fight their way out of this – with her magic. 

And maybe Ruby. As a werewolf. 

The amulet is in Cruella’s hand. 

“Fucking hell,” Emma mutters, drawing a curious glance out of Killian. She jerks her head slightly, the villains distracted by impossible relationship monikers.

“Oh damn,” he sighs. 

“Yeah, exactly. So, um...thoughts?”  
  
“Far too many, honestly.”   
  
Emma hums in understanding, but that appears to be one sound too many and the water that collides with her half-opened mouth is sudden and jarring and she can’t breathe. She shakes her head, trying to refill her lungs, but every inhale is just water and her head starts to spin before she can even begin to muster the magic lingering in her. 

“I’ve had just about enough of that, haven’t you, Cruella?” Ursula asks lightly, and Emma’s never drowned before, never even come close, but she seems to be on that track now and it is fairly awful. 

Honestly. 

Cruella nods. “Agreed. Can’t have the lovers conspiring against us again. He won’t appreciate that at all.”  
  
“Lovers, that’s a good descriptor for it. What are your thoughts on paramour?”   
  
“For the princess?” Ursula hums, a vague sound of interest that sends warning signs shooting up Emma’s spine, a roar of _something_ in her brain that makes her feel like she’s being split apart. That’s probably a byproduct of the drowning. 

She can hear yelling and howling in equal measure – Will screaming and Ruby trying to get out of the chain shackled around her hind leg – but Emma can barely process any of that when her vision turns spotty and she doesn’t object to whatever her legs are doing. She assumes they’re just collapsing, not able to support her own weight, and it’s getting annoying to be so consistently wrong. 

They’re not collapsing. They’re being dragged. 

Killian’s hand brushes the hair away from her face, shaking Emma’s shoulders slightly and she can’t stop coughing. The water is everywhere. “Hey, hey,” he says, rushing over the words as if getting them out quicker will help regulate her breathing. “Look at me. Swan, please. Open your eyes, darling.”

She does. They fly open, in fact, a word she’s _never_ heard before lingering in the minimal space around them. Emma can’t catch her breath – and it’s not the fault of the almost-drowning, it’s that word and the look on Killian’s face, a complete terror that a stranger shouldn’t have and a neighbor shouldn’t feel and _lovers_ makes a hell of a lot of sense. 

In a way that is, actually, the complete opposite of that. 

He exhales, nosing at her cheek like he’s making sure she’s there still. “Are you ok?”  
  
“If I ask you what the hell is happening again, is that weird?”   
  
“Probably not.”   
  
“Ok, good, that’s good.”   
  
“You’ve got to keep breathing love.”   
  
“Yeah, I think I’ve heard that somewhere.”

Killian chuckles, the twist of his lips obvious where his mouth is still pressed against Emma’s skin. And, rationally, she knows that there’s no spark that should come along with that, but rational thinking has flown out every metaphorical window she could come up with, so she refuses to try and figure out a reason for the pinprick of magic blooming just under her eye.

It is. 

And for, right now, that’s enough. 

“So quick to throw yourself in harms way, aren’t you, Captain?” Ursula asks, taking another step forward and kicking at the puddle under her feet. “It’s interesting that that hasn’t changed. Although I suppose it’s just a defining part of your character now, isn’t it?”  
  
Killian grits his teeth, tugging Emma flush against his chest. Ursula’s eyebrows lift slightly. 

“Interesting,” she muses. “It’s almost as if it’s embedded in your subconscious. Was it immediate? As soon as you saw her? That’s how the stories always go.”  
  
Ruby growls, low and aggressive and Emma gets the distinct feeling she knows something. Or, at least, has made several sweeping assumptions. 

“You said Captain,” Emma says, finding a bit of courage that may be another piss-poor metaphor. “Why do you think that?”  
  
“Why don’t you? Don’t you have your wits about you, your highness?”   
  
“Stop saying that!”   
  
“Ah, that’s an answer, my dear,” Cruella observes. She’s sitting on one of of the bar stools now, both dogs lying at her feet, a look on her face that reminds Emma of some sort of apex predator. “It’s interesting that you didn’t retain that when you came here.”   
  
“What?”   
  
"What the hell,” Will mumbles again, and Emma shouldn’t laugh, but her mind doesn’t care. The sound falls out of her unbidden, shaking her shoulders and making her tongue ache and that is disgusting. The water dripping from her hair is freezing cold. 

“I’m going to buy you a really big drink later,” she promises. Will salutes. He’s still lying on the ground. 

Ursula's gaze hasn’t moved from Killian – eyes drifting up and down his torso and flickering more than once to the hand at his side. “Looking for your sword?”

His hand stills. 

“Excuse me?”  
  
“Your sword,” she echoes, another twist of her wrist and the water swirls around her ankles. “Always prone to action weren’t you, Captain? You know, I think it got worse once she,” her chin jerks towards Emma again, “wasn’t there. It was as if you’d lost your impulse control entirely. Although, well...when one loses someone like that, I suppose it makes them desperate.”   
  
“Make your goddamn point! I don’t know her!”   
  
“Aw, come now, that wasn’t even close to convincing. You certainly acted like you did, pulling her to safety and simple nothings whispered in her ear. It’s almost sickening.”   
  
Emma can see the muscles in Killian’s throat move when he swallows, tongue darting between his lips because he’s breathing through his mouth now too. Belle hasn’t made a single noise in far too long. 

“What do you think you know?” Emma asks suddenly, stepping away from Killian quick enough that she manages to surprise him. Ursula looks impressed. She’s smiling, at least. 

That might not be a good thing. 

“Swan,” Killian warns, but she shakes her head deftly, not entirely surprised by the brush of fingers on the back of her wrist. 

The smile definitely isn’t a good thing. 

“Would you like to hear my evil plan, Savior?” Ursula asks, low and menacing and the word _siren_ bounces around Emma’s brain. She nods anyway. “Of course you would. It’s very easy to listen to me, isn’t it?”   
  
Another nod.   
  
“I haven’t known the Captain nearly as long as you have, but I feel as if I almost know him better than you--I’ve seen what he’s willing to do, just about anything, to get what he wants, and he’s not all that worried about the destruction he leaves behind.”

“Pirate,” Cruella says, and it sounds like a curse. There’s blood in Emma’s mouth. 

Ursula makes a noise of agreement. “Exactly. Willing to embrace any darkness, any challenge, all to get what he wants. I admired him for it at one point. That was my mistake.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Emma whispers, and it’s disappointing when she can’t make her voice stop shaking. “What did he do?”   
Ursula’s expression turns triumphant, the music from the jukebox blaring loud enough that Emma doesn’t hear whatever Killian says behind her. 

She wraps her fingers around his anyway. 

“It all came down to you, Savior,” Ursula explains. “He needed to get back to you and he was willing to do whatever it took. He needed my help, though. Not easy to get here, you see”  
  
“How?”   
  
“There was a rumor, long ago, of a water that could revive once-dead things. That it could spark life back into anything. Even something as seemingly unimportant as a bean.”   
  
Emma blinks. Once, twice, three times. The scene in front of her doesn’t change. She doesn’t really expect it to. 

“Swan,” Killian whispers, her own name turning into a plea. “I don’t know what she’s talking about. I’ve never--I’ve never met that woman before. I don’t…”  
  
The music grows louder, a thumping rhythm that echoes between Emma’s ears and makes the beams above her head rattle. “No, no, no, Captain,” Ursula objects. “We can’t have that. I won’t have you lying to your princess’ face. It’s unseemly. Listen to the music. I did pick this song out just for the two of you.”

Emma closes her eyes, not entirely in control of herself anymore, listening to the lyrics and the words and--  
  
“That makes no sense,” she growls, more misplaced confidence. The magic in her veins is helpful though, growing, Emma knows, the longer Killian’s thumb keeps doing that thing. 

Ursula’s lips twitch. “No? Ah, usually I’m better than that. I suppose it’s because you’ve allowed magic to wither away in this godforsaken realm. Well, no matter.” She snaps her fingers, the jukebox groaning under the force of the magic controlling it and Will curses at the destruction of even more of his property. 

Emma’s got to stop laughing. 

She does as soon as she realizes what song is playing. 

“Is that...Céline Dion?” 

“Oh, yes,” Ursula nods. “You see, I need you to remember, your highness. I need you to understand who, exactly, you’re dealing with and I need your pirate to lose you all over again. If only for my own pleasure.”  
  
Emma’s eyes are going to fall out of her head. It will be, inevitably, disgusting. 

“Jones isn’t a pirate,” Will argues, Ruby’s growl turning into a yelp when Cruella turns her dogs back towards her. “That’s--you’re a crazy person.”

One of the dogs turns on him, jumping forward and sinking his teeth into an arm that’s stretched out across linoleum floor and whatever sound Will makes at that will probably reverberate in Emma’s consciousness for the rest of her life. 

“Will,” Killian cries, moving half a step away from Emma. He freezes almost as quickly, though, more goddamn Céline Dion and Ursula’s quiet laughter. 

She waggles a finger at him. “I’m afraid we can’t go much further until your princess makes a choice, Captain. I didn’t expect her to have forgotten as well. It’s interesting, but I’m sure he has a contingency plan in place.”  
  
Emma wishes this conversation were more streamlined.

“He? You mean the Dark One? What do you know about the Dark One?” she demands, only to be met with an almost amused expression. The music gets louder, nudging at the back of her brain and visions that don’t feel like that – a grand hall and a red dress and a flash of a smile that she’s certain she’d be able to describe in minute detail if asked. There’s green grass and a feeling that comes from, not just being wanted, but being _loved_ , adored and needed and the sun that glints off the sword hilt in front of her eyes is almost as bright as the flash of light that reappears in the palm of Emma’s hand. 

Ursula blinks. 

“What do you know?” she asks again. Belle answers. Emma’s very glad Belle isn’t dead. 

“She said it before, when she was...when they got us down here. She said the Dark One was willing to make a deal with you. Us for you. That’s why the dog lady took Ruby’s...whatever was around her neck.” 

Emma needs to control the sounds she makes. This latest one isn’t quite a scoff, more just generic disbelief and something drifting dangerously close to fury. As if she’d just give herself up to the Dark One. 

That was not the point of her quest.

God, she hates that she even thought the word quest. 

“It’s all different when you don’t know what you are, Savior,” Cruella adds. “But tell me,” she dangles the amulet in the air, the chain pinched between her fingers, “what would you do if I just...slipped this on your friend? And off? And on? I’ve got nowhere to go, you see and I’ve always been fascinated by transformative magic like this. There’s no end to the kind of information I could glean tonight. Although I imagine it would be rather painful.”  
  
“You’re at a crossroads, Savior, again,” Ursula says. “The Dark One remembers what you did. He knows you ran, tried to hide yourself in this realm, but he was always going to find you. I made sure of that.”   
  
Emma’s mouth goes dry. “How?”   
  
“Your pirate. I wasn’t exaggerating. He was desperate for you, a path to the Land Without Magic. A place where, I’m sure, he’d be able to thrive. Magicless sot.” She scoffs callously, eyes turning hard and Emma knows she doesn’t imagine whatever is happening to her jacket. Glistening. Glowing. Magic. “Anyway, you were gone. Most of the kingdom was gone and this one had been left behind. With the Dark One trailing him. Oh, he hates your pirate almost as much as I do.”   
  
“Almost?” Emma repeats, the word heavy as she says it. 

Ursula winks. “Almost. Anyway, the pirate found me, begged me to lead him to Lake Nostos, so he could find his way back to you. I agreed, on the condition that he’d bring me with him.”  
  
“Why? You have magic.”   
  
“You’re quite a little genius, aren’t you? I’m sure your kingdom will feel so much safer knowing that they’re in such perceptive hands.”   
  
“An answer,” Emma shouts, flexing her hand at her side and the burst of magic that flies out of her is jarring at best. It’s goddamn, absolutely terrifying at worst. It’s the strongest thing she’s ever done and she wasn’t even trying to do it. 

The force of it collides with Cruella, sending her sailing off her barstool perch, slamming into the wall with a thud that makes Emma’s heart drop into her stomach. Ruby growls, just restrained enough that she can’t get her teeth on the woman’s throat, and for half a second Emma regrets that. She wants her dead. 

She wants them all dead. 

For doing something...she can’t remember. 

“I wanted away from my father,” Ursula explains quickly. “He’d been controlling me for years, forcing me to do things with my power...this is not my fault, Savior.”  
  
“Whose is it, then?”   
  
“His.” She nods in Killian’s direction, and Emma can’t remember the last time he blinked. “I didn’t know that he’d made a deal with my father as well. Wanted squid ink. Helps with the memories sometimes, you see. So I offered to steal it for him. He was very quick to agree, let me take the danger. We were supposed to meet at Lake Nostos.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And. My father caught me. He presented me to Jones and demanded a reason for it. The pirate wasn’t shy. He was more than willing to let me go back to my father, used as a pawn in his games. After all, he was already at Nostos. He didn’t need me anymore. Never did get that squid ink, though.”

“You’re making that up,” Emma accuses, part of her rebelling at the sentiment. She knows it’s true. She’s got no idea how she knows it’s true. 

Will’s throwing broken bits of chair to try and distract the dogs away from Ruby. 

“Am I?” Ursula asks. “Or am I simply telling you what you don’t want to hear, your highness? It always did fascinate me that you left him behind. In fact, I think I might have done him a favor when I took him to Nostos. He forgot what you’d done to him.”  
  
Emma stumbles back, not from the words themselves, but the certainty behind them, another push of confidence and nudge at the back of her brain, a magical attempt to drudge up feelings and memories that she isn’t sure she wants to exist. 

“I didn’t--” Emma starts, but Ursula’s already shaking her head. “Where’s the sword, then? You said he was trying to get his sword, where is it?”  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for that, your highness, but if memory serves, it was the most prized possession of our Captain Jones. As the reputation grew, so did that of the weapon. Some people used to suggest it was simply part of him. Or that it had been enchanted to obey his thoughts, as if it could act before he did. You know what I think, though?”   
  
“I can’t imagine.”   
  
“I think you gave it to him, your highness. And I think he remembered that every day. Even after you left him behind.”   
  
“I wouldn’t do that.”

Emma has no idea what possesses her to say that. It’s not entirely true – _can’t_ be, because he’s a stranger and some man who just happened to live next to the apartment her magic had been drawn to – but it’s not entirely _untrue_ either and the certainty that she’d do...something, _anything_ for the man whose thumb is still tracing out idle patterns on her wrist is only a little overwhelming.

In a powerful, magic-altering kind of way.

Her eyes screw shut as the feeling moves through her, trying to stay upright and grounded and Killian’s muttering something against her, quiet promises that seem familiar and--

_“You need to actually hold your blade up higher, you know.”_

_“Oh, shut up.”_   
_  
“Your highness!” _   
_  
“I said shut up, you’re not even supposed to be here.” _   
_  
“And who’s doing is that, love?” _ _  
  
_“Are you going to actually instruct or just pass sweeping judgements?”

_He nods, twisting the blade in his hand with a smile and the tip of his tongue pressed against the corner of his lips, laughing loudly as soon as Emma’s head snaps to the side. He doesn’t try to stop her, just catches her with an arm around the waist and greedy mouths and_ \--

“Swan,” Killian says sharply, one hand wrapped around her shoulder and his prosthetic resting on her hip and he’s got his back to Ursula. That’s idiotic. “Love, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“Now, we were just starting to have some fun, Captain,” Ursula admonishes. “And I’m afraid I really can’t let the princess go. He won’t be pleased with that. He wants her. Wants the spark of her magic. To restore the rest of his. She can’t leave.”  
  
“That’s not going to work.”   
  
“Hmm, you really are rather devoted aren’t you? A dutiful knight in shining armor.”

Emma’s lungs are never going to be the same. She’s not sure why, but she glances at Belle, curled against Will’s side with what, at first glance, appears to be a bit of his shirt wrapped tightly around her leg. 

They’re both incredibly bloody. 

“What did you just say?” Emma snaps, Ursula’s lips curling up at the returning shake to her voice. “Why would you...you know what? Fuck off.”

She waves her hand before she can doubt herself again, a muddled mess of magic and memories and the desperate desire to know _what the fuck_ is going on. Ursula’s body slumps under the blast, knees slamming into puddles. Emma’s not actually casting any spells, a move that would inevitably drive Regina insane, just acting on instinct and desire and the light streaming from the tips of her fingers. 

“I need that amulet,” Emma says, nodding in the direction of Cruella and it does not surprise her that Belle moves first. She waves her hand again, freezing the dogs to their spot and Ruby gives a yelp of approval. 

“Fucking hell,” Will grumbles, but he follows Belle anyway. Emma watches the scene for a moment – tugging the amulet out of Cruella’s grip and tossing it towards Ruby. She makes a less-than-impressed noise. 

“Put it on her,” Killian shouts. He’s stepped away from Emma – a move she’d barely noticed when everything _else_ was happening, a bottle clutched in his hand. It's broken, sharp shards that are probably as threatening as the great, disappearing, maybe didn’t ever exist, sword. “God, Scarlet, that is obvious!”   
  
“Ok, ok, not all of us have some kind of backlog of magic knowledge, Jones! Also, some of us are suffering from pretty severe blood loss.”   
  
“Oh, I can probably fix that in a second,” Emma says, another promise she likely shouldn’t be making. She may need a drink of her own before she tries. 

Killian beams at her. “See.”  
  
“Are you guys seriously flirting now?” Belle asks, moving towards Ruby slowly. “Honestly? I mean I knew you were into her, Killian, but--”   
  
“--What?” Emma asks. They don’t have time for this. They still have to deal with Ursula. Emma is fairly certain the water on the ground is moving. 

“Was that not obvious?” Killian asks. He’s, apparently, taking care of Ursula, crowding in her space with the bottle pointed at her neck and a certain glint in his eyes that makes Emma’s blood run cold. 

Like a fish. 

Or something. 

“It’s not going to work,” Ursula says. “It didn’t the last time. He knows you’ll give in eventually, your highness. You already have.”

“I’ve never actually met the Dark One,” Emma argues. “He invaded Storybrooke--”  
  
“--Because you ran. What kind of Savior does that? You ran and you took magic with you. But it doesn’t belong here either. It belongs in our realm, where it can thrive and grow and where it can be controlled. It’s inevitable, princess. He was always going to take over.”   
  
“None of that is true,” Killian hisses. He presses the tip of the bottle to Ursula’s skin, a gasp of pain and dot of blood and Ruby is Ruby again. Emma can hear her breath hitch. “Why are you lying?”   
  
“I’m not. I just remember what I took from you. And you’re doing it again, Captain.”   
  
Her eyes dart down towards his hand, pressure against her neck and a few more dots of far-too-red blood. He doesn’t move. Instead, his shoulders go straight as a board, a determination there that feels like a fire flaring back to life and Emma is seriously the least creative person on the planet. 

“Killian.”

Her feet move without much thought to what she’s doing, but it feels like crossing a line she can’t come back from and Emma’s hand doesn’t shake when she wraps it around Killian’s wrist. “Let go,” she whispers, pulling his fingers apart. “It’s ok. I’m--we’re ok, we’re going to get out of here now.”  
  
“Are you though?” Ursula counters. 

“That’s not much of a move when there’s still all that blood on your throat,” Ruby points out, both Will and Belle humming in agreement. They each have an arm wrapped around her shoulders. Emma isn’t sure who’s holding who up at this point. 

“And, incidentally, what bottle did you break to make your very threatening threat?” Will asks. “Because that’s like...you know, you’re going to have to pay for that.”  
  
“He won’t stop,” Ursula continues, unperturbed by their return to wholly out of place banter. “He’s coming for you, Savior and he’s coming for the pirate. The great thorn in his side, determined to waylay him. There’s no running from it anymore. It’s a fool’s errand.”   
  
“Then I’ve got to be the biggest idiot around,” Emma quips. She yanks the bottle out of Killian’s hand, tossing it on the ground and ignoring Will’s cries of protest about _profit margin_ , grabbing Ruby’s jacket. “Do not freak out when I do this.”   
  
Ruby groans. 

And their landing is a little off, but Emma will argue it’s because she didn’t know where they were going. 

“Are we in my apartment?” Belle asks, a note of _impressed_ in her voice. 

Emma nods, panting slightly when she falls back against the carpeted floor. Killian hasn’t said a word. “I certainly hope so,” she mumbles. “Otherwise this is going to suck.”  
  
“And after you teased the villain so well.”   
  
“How’s the blood loss coming?”   
  
“Uh, not great, honestly, but there were ancient sea witches to deal with and whatever Killian was doing and--” She snaps around so quickly, Emma briefly wonders if she’s passed out, but she’s staring at Killian instead, all concern and curiosity. “How did you know what to do with the bottle? That was…”   
  
“Barbaric?” Will suggests, Ruby already rifling through cabinets because nothing makes her hungrier than transforming. 

Belle shakes her head. “No, that was...habit. And threatening. Like you’d gotten used to that.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Killian says shortly, no room for objection. “You should let Swan fix your leg before you do actually, you know, die.”  
  
Will snorts. “Tactful as always.”   
  
“And just offering up Emma’s magic now, it seems,” Ruby adds. 

Killian must have been holding his breath because the exhale that rushes out of him is far too large for one, normal human to contain. His tongue moves again, eyes falling closed and head dropping forward and Emma’s moving before she thinks. Again. Or still. The tenses are starting to get confusing.   
  
“Give me five minutes, ok?” she asks, gaze darting down to the charms around Killian’s neck. He’s started toying with them. Another nervous habit. 

“Yeah, ok.”  
  
And she’s as good as her questionably-strong-magic word – waving her hands and removing any evidence that either Will or Belle had been bitten by large, possibly demonic dogs earlier that afternoon. There’s far too much to talk about, but Emma’s muscles feel heavy and her whole _being_ feels drained, so it only takes Ruby a few moments of staring to announce--”We’re going to make food, eat food, watch shitty TV and then figure out how to save the world tomorrow, ok?”   
  
They agree. 

But sleep is a curious thing and Emma’s brain is still racing, even after food and hot chocolate and nearly a full season of a show Belle claims is called _Drag Race_. She’s frustratingly awake, the soft tick of the clock in the kitchen a metronome designed to drive her insane, when she feels Killian’s stir next to her. 

“I’m sorry.”  
  
Emma’s lips quirk up. They’re laying on Belle’s kitchen floor. “None of that was your fault.”   
  
“That’s not what she said.”   
  
“She claimed to be an ancient sea witch with the power to control music and water, I’m not sure we can take her at face value.”   
  
“You saw her control the water though,” Killian points out.

“Is this a backwards way of getting me to thank you for saving me from that?”  
  
“What? No, of course not, that’s not--”   
  
“--Hey,” Emma interrupts, flipping onto her side and her hand just...moves to his cheek. On instinct. Of the unmagical variety. “That was an exceptionally shitty joke, huh?”   
  
Killian’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, but it’s a start. “Kind of...and she said the music was meant to get us to remember, right?”

“Where are you going with this?”  
  
“I’ve got no fucking idea, but...as soon as your magic...when it grew like that, I thought I saw...I remembered…”   
  
She swallows, fear and longing and the echo of _that_ feeling, like frost on a windowpane, disappearing before Emma can try and contain it. “What?” she asks, barely able to get the word out. “Did you--did you see something?”   
  
“Did you?”   
  
“Killian!”

He huffs, mouth crashing against hers like it will help him settle or remember even more. She’s dizzy with the rush of it, more than willing to linger in that moment for several moments longer, but the world is a dick and the Dark One is sending minions after them for reasons she can’t remember. 

“It was a...there were people and they were going somewhere, sneaking out, maybe,” Killian whispers, Emma’s eyes widening at the same time her jaw drops. “But it wasn’t...it felt like getting ready for something and, I...it was us, Swan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys. It's real nice. Bonus points if you can guess what the other song Ursula played was. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	4. Chapter 4

“Rise and shine, time to save the goddamn universe!”  
  
Emma grumbles, burrowing further into the small mountain of blankets she’s accumulated throughout the course of the night. It’s not easy to move. There’s an arm around her waist again. And she can’t help the smile _that_ inspires, a fluttering in her stomach that might be butterflies or more magic and she gasps when the first pillow collides with the side of her head. 

“Oh my God, Rubes, what the hell?” 

Another pillow hits her shoulder. 

“She’s insane,” Killian mumbles, not bothering to move his head up and Emma can’t help her laugh. Ruby growls, low in her throat and decidedly _un-_ menacing. Particularly when the third pillow misses its mark entirely. 

It hits Emma in the thigh. 

“That wasn’t even close,” she says, jerking forward to grab the latest weapon and toss it back. It barely makes it a few feet, landing with a soft thud on the linoleum floor with an exceptionally unfortunate pattern Emma can’t imagine Belle appreciates. 

Ruby arches an eyebrow. “Wow, you have no upper body strength at all, huh? How is it that I became a werewolf against my will yesterday and I’m still better at this than you?”  
  
“I did put together some fairly intense magic. You know...if we’re keeping score or whatever.”  
  
“Forty-seven points,” Killian adds. Emma genuinely can not stop laughing – mostly because she’s kind of charmed and she doesn’t remember actually falling asleep, staring at another unfamiliar ceiling with Killian’s quiet breathing next to her and she knows he was right. 

It had been them. 

In the dream. Or vision. _Whatever_. 

It doesn’t make any sense. Her laughter may be insanity-induced. That’s incredibly disappointing. 

“Is there a conversion system to these points?” Ruby asks. She’s leaning against the wall with her arms crossed lightly. “Or is this just...a thing you guys are doing? Again.”  
  
Killian lifts his head. “Again?”  
  
“Again, Jones. This is...this is goddamn, fucking weird, we’re all agreed on that, right?”  
  
“I don’t think that was ever up for debate.”  
  
“And you’ve got no memory of any of it? Nothing that the sea witch was saying? She was very certain you were the villain of the story.”  
  
“Ruby,” Emma cries, only to be brushed off quickly. 

Killian licks his lips, the tip of his tongue moving to the inside of his cheek and the whole look is a little ridiculous, but that pinch between his eyebrows is back and Emma figures she got somewhere in the realm of thirty-two minutes of actual, restful sleep. 

“I don’t know,” he admits softly, fingers toying with the edge of a blanket. The charms around his neck have fallen over the front of his shirt, and Emma’s eyes flit towards them, not sure why they feel important, just that they are and she can dimly hear the clack of laptop keys coming from the living room. 

That’s probably where Ruby got the pillows from. 

“Well,” Ruby says pointedly, “that’s not great news for us, honestly. If you’re secretly some kind of dick this is going to be exceptionally problematic.”  
  
“I’m not going to turn on you if that’s what you’re worried about.”  
  
“I mean, that’s exactly what I’m worried about, but it’s all very confusing because you’re staring longingly at Em and crazed dog ladies are referring to her as a princess and the whole thing is really messing with my mind.”  
  
“Just your mind, huh?” Emma asks, and she knows there’s an acid to her voice that doesn’t belong there. Ruby still looks far too pale to be entirely encouraging, a bruise on her left leg that is not a color skin should be, but Emma’s eyes feel like they’re going to fall out of her head and her head feels like it’s going to crack in two. 

She’s so absolutely terrified she’s positive she’s shaking with it. 

Ruby sighs. “No, not just my mind. God, obviously. I’m--ok, full disclosure, I am freaking the fuck out. We’ve been here for almost two weeks now and there’s no actual Dark One to be seen and--”  
  
“--What exactly is a Dark One?” Killian interrupts, flashing a supremely sarcastic grin when Ruby growls again. “Consider it a byproduct of my professional curiosity.”  
  
“God, you are annoying. How does Emma keep flirting with you?”  
  
“Must be the dashing good looks.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s definitely what it is,” Emma grumbles. “The Dark One is a fairy tale. He’s...when we were kids, he was the bad guy in every story. The threat if you ever did something wrong. _Don’t do that or the Dark One will get you_. It was never real.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But, it’s like I told you. A man walked across the Storybrooke town line nearly two weeks ago, demanding...well, me and my magic. He kept calling me the Savior. And Regina--remember her, the mayor?”  
  
Killian nods, only slightly placating as his fingers ghost over the back of Emma’s wrist. Ruby gags. “I listen to your stories, Swan. Keep going.”  
  
Emma ignores the flush she can feel in her cheeks. “Anyway, Regina thinks that this guy, a man who just showed up and we’re pretty positive has magic, is actually the Dark One. Coming for...me. But that opens up a whole new can of absolutely disgusting worms because as far as we knew the only people in the entire world who had magic existed in Storybrooke.”

The pinch between Killian’s eyebrows hasn’t disappeared yet. 

If anything, it gets deeper, more determined and even more confused. 

“Does everyone in Storybrooke have magic?” he asks, and Emma’s not sure what she thought he’d ask, but it’s certainly not that. She blinks. Six times in a row. 

“No,” Ruby answers. “Not...not everyone, but it’s--rare that someone doesn’t, actually. And it’s even stranger that someone with magic would just be...out in the world like that.”  
  
“Do you think that’s possible?”  
  
“Fuck if I know. I’m just the protection for the Savior.”  
  
“That might be selling yourself short.”  
  
“Ah, that’s actually kind of nice. Maybe you can stick around some more.”  
  
Emma scoffs. “Benevolent.” She twists, only to nearly choke herself with several different blankets in the process, and Ruby’s eyes have a very specific type of teasing glint to them. “Ok, can we just...is Belle already looking things up?”  
  
“Since possibly dawn,” Ruby nods, and Will shouts something that sound suspiciously like _earlier_ from the other side of the apartment. “I think it may be time to make a list, Em. And possibly throw out every preconceived notion we’ve got.”  
  
“That makes this very difficult.”  
  
“Yeah, well, it hasn’t been exactly easy so far, has it? And if we’re going to be worried about other magical beings out there, we’ve got to figure out what we’re dealing with.”  
  
“We don’t know what we’re dealing with,” Emma points out, doing her best not to sound like the pessimist she absolutely is. “Your eyes are going to get stuck midroll.”  
  
“That wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t trashing every idea I’ve got. Listen, Belle is like...breaking into research servers I didn’t even know existed, trying to find some information about the Dark One and possible things we can be doing and we’re totally going to save the world. We just have to make a to do list first.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s all we were missing,” Killian mumbles. It earns him his own eye roll. And glare. 

“I retract whatever compliment I gave you two seconds ago.”  
  
He grins. 

“You get two more seconds to figure out how to disentangle yourselves from that pretzel you became,” Ruby continues, nodding at the twist of limbs belonging to both Emma and Killian, “and then you have to get out of this kitchen so I can caffeinate. Or I will bite you. Got it?”  
  
Killian hums. “I think you’ve made your point.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
She turns on her heels – but only after she tosses the pillow Emma barely threw back across the kitchen. It hits Emma in the knee. 

Emma squeezes her eyes shut, gritting her teeth and willing the scene to change. It doesn't. She knew it wouldn’t, but she can’t shake this lingering bit of hope in the pit of her stomach and halfway down her spine and she’s got no idea where to start. 

“If you think any harder, love, the steam pouring out of your ears will probably help brew that coffee Ruby was demanding.”

Whatever noise she makes isn’t a laugh. It’s depressing. It’s scared. But Emma makes it anyway, head lolling to her side with half-opened eyes and she’s met with that one, specific look she was hoping for – a slight quirk of lips and the pinch is gone, just a few strands of hair drifting towards his eyebrows and a far-too-blue gaze that seems more than content to stare directly at her for the foreseeable future.

“That’s pointed,” she mumbles, leaning her cheek into Killian’s hand as soon as he moves it. The whole thing is oddly personal, and Emma detests the word _intimate_ , particularly when it’s being used in someone else’s kitchen with threats of werewolf bites lingering over them, but it’s also the only thing that really makes sense and she’s going to fund a scientific study on Killian’s thumb as soon as this is all over. 

He keeps moving it, quick movements and brushes over skin, ghosting over her jaw and the side of her neck until he moves his fingers into her hair. He doesn’t kiss her. She doesn’t really want him to, honestly, just wants to exist in _this_ , calm and easy and something drifting closer to supportive than she’d ever admit to. 

Or ever admit to wanting. 

“Round,” Killian argues, voice dropping low when his forehead rests against hers. “Decidedly round opinions and spherical concerns.”  
  
“That doesn’t make any sense.”  
  
“This is charming, Swan, you’re ruining it.”  
  
“It’s less charming when you say that.”  
  
He chuckles, letting her hair fall between his fingers. “That’s fair. C’mon, tell me what you’re thinking. It can’t possibly be that bad.”  
  
“No? How could it be anything except horrendous?”  
  
“Well, as you were very quick to point out to Ruby, and rightfully so, you did some fairly incredible magic last night. The freezing things was a favorite.”  
  
Those words in that specific order should not make Emma’s pulse stutter or her heart swell, but neither of those things care about _should_ and the flush in her cheeks grows. She’s very warm. She’s fairly certain it doesn’t have anything to do with the blankets. 

“Not to mention teleporting us to a place you’ve never been before,” Killian adds. “How does that--how did that work, exactly?”

Emma shrugs. “I just..I thought about somewhere safe and somewhere that wouldn’t freak everyone out and here we are.”  
  
“That’s incredible, you know that?”  
  
“Be serious.”  
  
“I am,” Killian says, no room for argument in the tone of his voice. “Deathly even. If I could come up with another word than incredible, I would. I’m going to go ahead and blame that on several other things, but I’m decidedly impressed and only a little worried.”  
  
“Worried? What about?”  
  
“All signs would point to you. And, uh...me. In regards to whatever we saw.”  
  
Emma’s teeth find her lower lip, biting down so she doesn’t make anymore ridiculous and less-than-helpful noises. Killian’s eyes fall back down, as if holding her gaze is a challenge he can’t possibly contend with anymore and it only takes her a moment to realize that’s not what it is at all – he’s ashamed. 

“Hey,” Emma mutters, twisting her legs to crowd into his space and there wasn’t that much space between them to begin with. “This isn’t...we don’t know that what she said was true. None of it. It could--” She cuts herself off, annoyed by the sudden tears in her eyes. “--What else do you remember? From whatever you saw.”  
  
Killian’s eyes flicker back up towards her, wary and a little guarded. “It wasn’t much,” he says. “But I knew it was me. It was almost as if I was reliving it, as if I’d just closed my eyes and woken up as this person.”  
  
“Could you see anything?”  
  
“Could you?”  
  
“The repeating thing has got to stop,” Emma grumbles, poking her finger into his chest. The bounce between _serious_ and _flirting_ is almost starting to feel normal. Less so when Killian grabs her hand, tugging it up to his mouth so he can kiss across the bend of her knuckles. 

Then it’s just flirting. 

And, maybe, swooning a little. God, Ruby is seriously going to kill her. 

“And that’s not an answer, Swan.”  
  
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. It was more like a feeling? Does that make sense?”  
  
“None of this makes sense, but that’s neither here nor there. And I think I could. That might be wishful thinking, though.”  
  
“How?”

He clicks his tongue, grimacing so his nose scrunches and his free hand finds the hair that curls behind his right ear. “I thought I saw something. I felt it--like you said, knew it was me and knew it was you even more, but that was...that was the weird part. It was like...getting yanked back into something.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ve got some theories on that?”  
  
“That so?”  
  
Emma nods. “I think that’s because it’s my magic. I’m kind of broadcasting and including you in that. Shit, that’s a terrible explanation.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, stomach churning and she really, really needs Killian to blink. “Ok, what I’m trying to say is--”  
  
“--I could feel that.”

Emma bites her tongue. Not on purpose. The taste of blood rushes into her mouth, eyes going wide and all but yanking air in through her nose. And if her heartbeat had stuttered before, it stops entirely now, stalling completely like she’s been frozen or stunned, hearing words she’d never believed possible while sitting on a genuinely horribly-designed linoleum floor. 

She shakes her head quickly – not sure why she’s objecting to something she knows is true, but Emma is a pessimist and lonely and she still can’t remember how she got to Storybrooke. And that may be the crux of her problem. 

“Don’t do that, Swan,” Killian says, but there’s a note of amusement in his voice that does not fit the situation at all. He ducks into her eye line, one side of his mouth tugged up and the caution in his gaze has turned to a near-blistering optimism. “Emma, love, look at me.”  
She shakes her head again.  
  
So, she’s like...five years old. Magic is definitely safe in her hands. 

“Emma.”  
  
“Stop,” she whispers, hating how much she’s pleading with him. “Please that’s---it’s not possible. You don’t have magic. That’s not--”  
  
“--Like coming home,” Killian interrupts, and it would probably be easier if Emma just got rid of her tongue entirely at this point. She’d stop biting it then. 

“What?”  
  
He smiles at her, the pads of his fingers brushing away tears she didn’t realize had started to fall. And it’s been so easy. In a never-ending stream of the exact opposite, _this_ , them and several other collective phrases, has been as easy as breathing and inadvertently biting her tongue. 

“Like coming home,” Killian repeats. “That’s what it felt like. In the library and when we got back to your apartment and as soon as Ursula said you’d leave. I know--I know you wouldn’t do that, Swan. Because it...it felt like, ok, when I was a kid, it snowed once and it was...well, it was bad, but I was a kid and I went outside. For hours. And I came in and I was freezing, teeth chattering and icicles on my eyelashes and--” 

She laughs. She doesn’t mean too, but that’s the theme of this whole, goddamn thing, and Killian’s answering smile makes her magic jump. He absolutely notices. “You’re a distraction,” he accuses, mumbling the words against her lips. “Anyway, I came in and we lived in this tiny apartment, so there was no fireplace or anything, just this rickety old space heater. We didn’t use it that often, it wrecked the electric bill, but I couldn’t stop shivering and Liam sat me in front of it and told me _enjoy it, little brother_ and it was...I don’t think I’ve ever been that warm.”

“I was home,” Killian continues, and Emma is still crying. It’s absurd. “And I was...I could sit there and be warm and I wasn’t worried. I wasn't scared. There was no imminent threat of frostbite.” He lets his hand cup her jaw again, thumb moving to trace across her lower lip. “I was just home. And that was enough. That’s what it felt like.”

Emma sniffles. It’s also absurd. And Killian’s laugh works its way into her, lingering under her skin and mixing with the magic in her veins, a contained inferno blazing in the very center of her. 

“What did you think you saw?” she asks, well aware that it’s not the exact response he’s hoping for, but her tongue feels far too big for her mouth and it’s a miracle she even got _that_ out. 

Killian blinks. “Liam had a ring. I don’t...it might have been our dad’s, but I never really knew. He always had it though, for as long as we could remember. Said it was good luck, gave it to me when I enlisted. It was always--” He reaches down, grabbing the charms around his neck and Emma’s fingers dart out on instinct. “--There. Hanging with the rest of them, but it’s...I can’t remember what happened to it.”

She doesn’t actually fall over, she’s still sitting down and Killian’s hand is still doing _whatever_ , but it’s far too close for any sense of comfort and Emma can’t rationalize the sense of dread that lands in the pit of her stomach. 

It sounds like a pillow. 

“And you think I had it?” Emma asks. “In this...wherever we were?”  
  
“Talking. And holding a sword.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s weird, right?”  
  
“Swan, I think we’ve got to put out a blanket agreement that every single part of this is incredibly weird,” Killian grins, but there’s still a nervous tinge to it. “And I don’t know. The whole thing happened so quickly, I’m not sure. But we were there and I wasn’t--I wasn’t me.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s true.”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
“No, no, come on. Ok, just...I trust you,” she says, and it’s a miracle she doesn’t actually shout the words in his face. It’s very close. She’s not great at emotions. “Just...I do. Completely. And I don’t know if that’s because you can feel my magic or whatever, but it’s true and I’m...whatever past Ursula claimed you had with her, I don’t care.”  
  
“You can’t mean that.”  
  
“Why?” Emma challenges. He catches her around the wrist before she can stab her finger into his chest again. “You want a blanket agreement that every single part of this is incredible weird? Fine. It’s the weirdest fucking thing in the world, but the only part that has made any sense so far is...you. I am not…” Her eyes drop, biting on her lip again if only to distract herself from the flutter of magic in the air around her. “No one’s ever been able to feel my magic,” she breathes. “And, I have no goddamn idea what is happening, but it’s almost been normal, right?”

Killian nods slowly, eyes not leaving her face. He honestly hasn’t blinked in days. “Drifting back into a memory.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. A good one.”

Emma takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly and they’ve got to get off the floor. Her back is killing her. “I have no idea what’s right and what’s true or if this is all just one great, big sign that I’m losing my mind completely, but I’m...I was alone. In Storybrooke. It was never--” She wishes the words would stop getting caught in her throat. Honestly, emotions are the worst. “I have a tendency to expect the worst of people, mostly so I don’t get let down and--”

“--I don’t intend to let you down, Swan.”

There’s a conviction to his words, a steady confidence that leaves her a little breathless. “I know,” Emma promises. “So, we’ll figure it out. And no matter what is actually going on here, I’m going to choose to see the best in you.”

She barely hears whatever he says next, is fairly sure it’s _and I with you_ , which is actually fairly romantic, all things considered, but Emma can’t bother with romance when Killian’s tongue is in her mouth. She moans. Honestly. On the floor. Of Belle’s kitchen. With that absolutely horrendous pattern. 

And the whole thing is a little heady and a little desperate and, really, kind of a dick move because there are other people in that apartment who deserve coffee and a copious amount of alcohol. Emma still doesn’t care. She shifts onto her knees, bracketing Killian’s hips with her legs so she can get some leverage and her fingers back in his hair and that makes _him_ growl against her, a sound that shoots straight to her core and sparks that inferno into a blaze that could probably take down several large and impressive forests. 

Her head swims, not enough oxygen to her lungs or her brain when her nose is pressed against Killian’s cheek. Emma doesn’t move. She pulls herself closer to him instead, trying to occupy the same space or the same magically-charged air and neither one of them notice the footsteps at first. 

Honestly, it is supremely dick move. She’ll have to apologize to Ruby later. 

“Scarlet, what the hell,” Killian mumbles, not bothering to try and move Emma and his eyes widen meaningfully when he laughs. She’s basically straddling him at this point. 

Will shrugs, dumping coffee into the machine. “Belle offered to draw straws, but I figured eventually you two had to come up for air and Ruby was certain if we just got the scent of coffee, Emma would be more apt to research some shit.”

“Research some shit,” Emma echoes. 

“Ruby’s words, not mine.”  
  
“And you had no qualms about walking in here when were--”  
  
“--Trying to decide if it’d be cool if you guys could just...rip each other’s clothes off? Spoiler, it’s not cool. This isn’t your apartment.”  
  
“That’s not an answer.”  
  
“I know,” Will smiles, Killian sighing despondently. “And that’s really more fun for me at this point. But also, no, I did not because I know Killian and I know there’s something big going on here.”  
  
“Did the magic yesterday give that away?” Killian asks archly.

“You’re hysterical, you know that? An absolute riot. Yes, Jones, it did help a bit, actually. But also you’ve been going cross-eyed since Belle and I got engaged and as much as I’d like to believe you’re simply happy for me and the suit you’ll have to eventually get, I’m fairly certain it’s because you’ve tripped right over your own feet.”  
  
“And landed where, exactly?”  
  
“Trying to figure out if you can get your girlfriend’s clothes off on the kitchen floor of an apartment that, again, does not belong to you.”

“Ok, that’s not what was happening.”  
  
Emma and Will make nearly identical noises. Killian looks vaguely scandalized. “Hey, jinx,” Will cries, a picture of amused happiness and Emma’s not sure why that’s quite as calming as it is. She’s going to claim it as another victory, though. “Now you owe me a drink and a soda.”  
  
“Maybe you should be making a list,” Emma says. “Just of all these things I owe you.”  
  
Will winks. And Killian curses under his breath, head falling to Emma’s shoulder. He kisses the skin he finds there.  
  
“So, uh,” Will continues, jumping onto the counter and letting his legs swing out, “Are we going to talk about this? Neither one of you were very quick to object to the tripping joke.”  
  
“That’s because it wasn’t funny,” Killian says. 

“Incorrect. It was very funny. And, strictly speaking, should be held in the highest accord since I’m fairly positive I’m the only one doing my job around here.”

“Where are you going with this?”  
  
“Are you prepared to be stunned?”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“Ok, that’s not an answer though.”  
  
“He thinks he’s the court jester,” Belle answers, padding into the kitchen with her laptop in hand and a blanket wrapped around her waist. “Are we just going to do this in here? I thought we were going to move so we could use the couch.”  
  
“Aw, babe,” Will groans. “You ruined the punchline.”  
  
“Get better at your job, then,” Killian hisses, and Emma has no idea where to look. Ruby’s mumbling under her breath when she joins the fray, dropping onto one of the pillows from earlier with an ease that almost makes Emma confident. 

“He’s got a point,” Ruby agrees. “You can’t use whatever title you’re claiming as a joke, that’s just lazy writing.”

Will flips her off – and it’s all almost, kind of domestic in a strangers agreeing to fight the physical embodiment of evil with some, possible, fate thrown in kind of way. Ruby’s laugh likely does damage to the veneer on the cabinets. 

Belle has an impressive amount of cabinet space. 

“This has stopped being fun,” Will announces. 

“Was it ever?”  
  
“Maybe not with the crazy dogs. Or the crazy dog lady. Or the almost drowning. Or ruining by bar--”  
  
“--This is not a great list,” Emma points out, but Will barely acknowledges her. Killian loops an arm around her middle. 

“Or suggesting that some of us don’t know who we actually are. That was, admittedly, kind of freaky. And, oh, yeah, yeah, don’t forget the werewolf thing. How painful is it to turn into a werewolf when you don’t want to?”  
  
“It’s not fun,” Ruby answers, fingers drifting to the amulet that’s back around her neck almost unconsciously. “And I think that’s kind of where we’ve got to start this if we’re doing it. Are we doing this?”

“I’m not getting up,” Killian says. “And I doubt Scarlet can actually get off the counter now that he’s up there.”  
  
Will sneers. “Ah, fuck off, Jones. I almost died for you and your girlfriend.”  
  
That’s two girlfriends. And no objections. Emma isn’t counting. She’s the worst liar. 

“And I brought my laptop in here,” Belle adds, pointing at the screen like they aren’t all aware of it, “so, really, that should take precedent. The list is on here, anyway.”  
  
“There’s a list?” Emma asks. 

“I don’t know you very well, but I’m admittedly a little insulted that you think there wouldn’t be a list.”

“Fair.”

Belle hums, Will snickering softly and that might be the loudest coffee maker in the world. “Ok,” Belle starts. “So, first thing. The magic ladies showed up in the building yesterday, knew that Ruby is a werewolf and were also fairly determined to bring both me and Will with them. Because they weren’t looking for just Emma. It had to do with Killian too.”  
  
“Which is the part we can’t understand,” Will says. “Because that seems to suggest that Killian’s as much a part of this as Emma, right?”

Ruby nods. “Keep going.”

“I don’t know that I’ve got anywhere else to go with it, honestly. Mostly just that I wasn’t lying before. He’s been tripping over himself feeling things for her since he met her.” He nods in Emma’s direction, lips twitching and she’s not sure she appreciates being teased at the moment. “I’ve never...nothing’s ever been like that.”  
  
“You’ve got another thought,” Killian accuses. “Share it.”  
  
Will scowls, eyes no more than slits, but Emma knows Killian is right and she’s got her own theories about that. “Ok. I believe in the magic. I saw it. I felt it. I got bitten by that lady’s crazy dogs. What I’m not sure I can wrap my mind around is the idea that those magic people, one, showed up here, because, like, where do the magical people come from? And two, those same magical people believe that you’re part of the problem.”  
  
“And yet?”  
  
“Shit, you’re annoying, you know that?”  
  
“Right?” Ruby asks, and Belle can’t actually make her laugh sound like a noise that isn't that. She’s typing something again. 

“What I’m asking is...whether or not it’s possible,” Will says, and his knuckles have gone white from gripping the counter. “Emma’s got magic. Fine, cool. Great, even. But can the rest of it be legit? I mean--you’re you, right?”

For half a second Emma wonders if she inadvertently cast a spell. It’d be impressive if she had – mostly because the entire kitchen looks as if it’s frozen, a sudden tension to the air that’s actually more like palpable fear and the feeling that Will Scarlet may be absolutely right. 

“She said this realm,” Emma whispers. “Ursula, I mean. She said that when she took Killian to Nostos, she did something, made him forget--”  
  
“--You,” Ruby supplies. “She said he forgot you. And his sword.”  
  
“You think the sword thing is important?”  
  
“Em, you’ve got to stop asking me all these questions I don’t know the answer to. As far as I knew, we lived in one world where the Dark One was the scary thing who hung out under the staircases and lurked in the basement.”  
  
“God, you lot really have horrendous bedtime stories, don’t you?” Killian asks. Ruby rolls here eyes. Again. 

“And you’re still super frustrating. Ok, ok, backtrack. I need to be sure of something. Tell me something we one-hundred percent for sure know.”

“We have magic,” Emma says, focusing on the clack of Belle’s keyboard like that will make it easier to regulate her breathing. Killian’s fingers tightening around hers helps too. “And we’ve grown up with it. In a town where that was normal.”  
  
“But also had non-magical people,” Killian adds. 

“Seriously, if you interrupt me again, I’m going to turn you into a frog.”  
  
“I think that just means you have to kiss me to fix it, right?”

“This is disgusting,” Will says evenly, and the coffee maker dings. He nearly falls off the counter trying to open the cabinet behind him. 

Seriously, so many cabinets. 

Emma closes her eyes, trying not to burst into flames. It’s getting increasingly difficult, what with the magic and the hand holding and the magic inspired by the hand holding. She’s going to start drinking the coffee out of the pot soon. “Ok, ok,” she mutters. “Magic started disappearing. We couldn’t do things. A seeress showed up, said I could save magic, but then a man also showed up at the town line and we ran.”  
  
“Em,” Ruby sighs, but Emma shakes her head again. Her neck aches.  
  
“We ran. We ended up here. I’ve got no fucking idea why and--wait.” Her eyes snap open, neck objecting to whatever she does to it that time and Ruby doesn’t blink. She curses loudly. 

“Oh, God, we’re idiots, aren’t we?”  
  
“What?” Will fumes, sliding off the counter with more than one mug of coffee in his hand. He glances meaningfully at Killian. 

“We were so worried about the Dark One, shit that’s still so weird--”  
  
“--Focus, Lucas,” Killian mutters. 

“I’m going to kill you,” she snarls. “And you’re obviously just as stupid as the rest of us because our court jester was the one who almost figured it out. We were ignoring it.”

Will drops one of the mugs. “What?” he cries. “Me?”  
  
“You.”  
  
“Kind of,” Emma amends, waving her free hand and the mug is a mug again. There’s no coffee stains on the linoleum. 

Belle lets out a whistle. “Wow. You can come back now. Even if you and Killian were doing unspeakable things in here before.”  
  
“Can we focus?” Killian snaps, but the tips of his ears have gone red and Emma’s counting that too. She’s willing to be a little selfish on that one. 

“That’s literally all I want,” Ruby says. “The point I am trying to make and what I’m fairly certain Will stumbled on is that we never wondered where the Dark One came from. We were all so freaked out that our childhood nightmare had shown up, not to mention the seeress and our magic being all fucked up, that none of us even questioned it. But he had to get here somehow, didn’t he? That’s...I mean, he may be some kind of evil-fueled demon, but that makes sense. Doesn’t it?”  
  
“Double checking doesn’t really inspire a ton of confidence,” Emma murmurs, Ruby sighing dramatically enough that her whole body slumps forward with the force of it. “Although it does bring us back around to this whole _other realm_ thing.”  
  
“That gives me goosebumps.”  
  
“That’s putting it lightly,” Will says, dropping onto the floor as well, with both his hands wrapped around his now-fixed mug. “So, what you guys are saying is you think these people came from...not here?”  
  
Ruby lifts both her hands in the air. “I’ve never seen Ursula or--what did she say the dog lady’s name was?”  
  
“Cruella,” Belle answers, not pulling her eyes away from whatever she’s reading on the laptop. “Also, you’re forgetting that she called this The Land Without Magic. And was very quick to point out that Killian was--”  
  
“--A pirate,” Will cuts in, and there’s an almost understandable skepticism to his voice. “She called Emma a princess too.”  
  
“Yes, to both of those things, but that’s not what I was going to say. Emma’s magic. Ruby’s a werewolf. Ursula tried to drown us with a soda gun and I’m pretty sure that music had a point.”  
  
“And yours is?” Killian prods. He’s sitting straighter than he was a moment before, jaw clenched again and eyes boring straight ahead like that will guard him from whatever Belle is about to suggest. Emma squeezes his hand. 

And she knows she doesn’t imagine the way his shoulders drop just a bit. 

“That she said you didn’t have magic,” Belle says. Her voice shakes. That’s also not particularly encouraging. 

“And?”

Belle opens her mouth – eyes looking a hint glossier than they had a few seconds before – but the only sound she makes is a gasp and, well, that’s fair. 

Because there’s another woman standing in her kitchen. 

She doesn’t look any different than she did in Storybrooke, which, well, Emma isn’t sure she expected her to because it hasn’t really been that much time since she had the weight of the magical word dropped squarely on her shoulders, but it’s...more than that. The seeress looks _exactly_ the same, as if she’d merely stepped from that moment to this. 

Her hands are still covering her eyes, head bowed slightly and the bramble in that one section of hair is exactly where it was weeks ago. She inhales deeply, shaking strands of hair on to her back. The bramble falls on the floor. 

It’s impossibly loud when it lands. 

“This is happening, right?” Will whispers. It’s not really a whisper. 

Ruby nods slowly, fingers curling around the back of her neck. “Definitely happening. This is the same woman who showed up to tell Emma she had to save us all.”

“And she wasn’t in your town? That wasn’t like...a massive announcement about these different, magical realms?”  
  
“Babe,” Belle groans at the same time Killian growls “shut up, Scarlet.”  
  
“Realms do not matter to my kind,” the seeress says, and Emma’s stomach flies into the back of her throat. It hurts. “We have no concept of space or time. We go where we please, when we please to maintain the balance in the universe.”  
  
“Oh, that’s foreboding,” Emma mutters. Killian laughs softly next to her, a kiss pressed to her cheek that’s more grounding than anything else they’ve done that morning. 

Even the making out. They might have been trying to take each other’s clothes off. 

They both freeze as soon as the seeress turns, pulling her hands away to reveal a face with a distinct lack of eyes. There’s nothing except twisted scar tissue, a jagged line that runs across her forehead and the painted eyes on her hands are the brightest colors Emma’s ever seen. 

The blue there matches up with the shade of Killian’s eyes. 

So, honestly, she’s gone insane. 

It’s lame that she didn’t get to drink more coffee before coming to that particular realization.

“You’re wasting time, Savior,” the seeress says, clearly unaffected by Emma’s less-than-polite reaction. “And making the same mistakes as before.”  
  
Despite her musings regarding fish and the possibility of gills the day before, Emma is still fairly certain she’s neither fish nor amphibian so the phrase _blood runs cold_ doesn’t really make sense, but she’s having a difficult time remembering to breathe, so she figures that’s kind of a legitimate excuse. 

And Killian’s grip on her hand is going to leave bruises. 

“Captain,” the seeress continues, and Will is mumbling curses Emma has never heard before. “I’m glad you made it.”  
  
“Talk about foreboding,” Belle mutters. “Add that to the list, Ruby.”  
  
Ruby hums noncommittally, a jerky nod and teeth digging into her lower lip. “Yeah, yeah, what the hell is this lady talking about?”

The seeress’ lips twitch, and Emma’s not sure what to do with that. She admittedly hasn’t had much experience with people who can see every molecule of time, but she assumes they wouldn’t have much of a sense of humor. “I’m here to help, protector. And to ensure that history does not repeat itself. That will only end in darkness.”

“That’s not helping,” Ruby barks. “And we’re trying to do some stuff about the darkness, but it’s not exactly an easy task you’ve presented us with.”  
  
“And what meaningful thing ever is?”  
  
There is not enough metaphorical disgust in however many realms there may be for Emma to infuse in her groan. She tries anyway, rolling her whole head in the process and she doesn’t have to look to know Killian is smiling. 

It probably has something to do with the burst of magic sitting in the bend of her left elbow. 

“Ok, but that’s not really an answer either,” Emma says. “You told me that I was destined to save magic. But my magic pulled both me and Ruby here. We weren’t aiming for New York.”  
  
It’s definitely a smile. The seeress is smiling. And it’s far too knowing. Emma assumes that’s pretty par for the course.  
  
“Yes,” she agrees. “You were aiming for him.”

She points a finger towards Killian, the body behind Emma flinching slightly at what can only be described as...foreboding. Damn. She needs to buy a thesaurus. 

“Me?” Killian asks, suspicion practically dripping from both letters. “How is that possible? I’ve never--”  
  
He stops talking abruptly, Emma jerking her head around and she’s not entirely ready for the pained look on his face. She has no idea how she moves so quickly, a mess of limbs and rushing magic that makes the ends of her hair feel like they’re illuminated. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that she does, twisting and turning, a hand on his cheek and quiet promises pressed to any bit of skin she can reach. 

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” Emma breathes, dragging her lips across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones that she has spent a questionably amount of time thinking about when everything else is going to shit. He’s screwed his eyes shut, every one of his teeth visible when he winces in pain. 

Emma’s eyes snap towards Ruby – that same bit of fear etched onto every inch of her face. She swallows, trying to push away the worries and the questions and there had to be a reason they landed in New York. 

In that apartment building. 

_He can feel her magic._

“Babe,” Emma whispers, an endearment that doesn’t sit perfectly on the tip of her tongue, but feels like another almost. She licks her lips. “Babe, it’s ok. Whatever you’re seeing. Whatever you think you’re remembering, just...you’ve got to open your eyes and look at me. Please.”

He doesn’t move. He’s barely breathing. The seeress is still in the goddamn kitchen, hands back over her eyes and magic pulsing out of her and--  
  
“God, stop it,” Emma yells, and she’s going to dislocate her neck if she keeps going at this pace. “Leave him alone! Please! This isn’t...this…”  
  
“That’s not true, your highness,” the seeress says, a quiet disappointment that echoes between Emma’s ears. “And that’s why I’m here. Because I can’t allow you to ignore that again.”  
  
“Again,” Belle repeats. “That’s...you keep saying that. Emma and Killian met when we kicked him out of his apartment.”

The seeress drops her hand, Killian’s gasp of air making it sound like he’s only recently discovered oxygen and all the great things it can do for a human body. His head lands on Emma’s shoulder again, bouncing slightly until it settles in the crook of her neck, lips pressed against skin and she can feel tears there as well. 

“Still with me?” she whispers, feeling him nod slightly. 

“Aye.”

She blinks at that – although it’s not surprise, it’s...God, she doesn’t have time. There’s a fucking seeress making sweeping judgements behind her. 

Emma presses a kiss to the top of Killian’s hair, shifting slightly to support his weight when she tries to move both of them. The seeress won’t meet her gaze. “What do you mean?” Emma demands. “Again. I’ve never seen the Dark One before. How can I make the same mistakes in a situation that’s brand-new?”  
  
“And awful,” Ruby mumbles. 

“Yeah, that too!”  
  
The seeress flips her hands up, a dull snap to her wrists and every single light in Belle’s apartment flares to life, timing up with the magic that rushes through Emma. “I don’t have that power, Savior,” the seeress says, and Emma wishes she’d settle on one title. “You’re the only one who can do that, but we are running out of time. There are decisions that must be made, events that have to take place and you--”  
  
“--Oh, you’re breaking the rules,” Killian says. The seeress tenses. And her hands waver. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? You told Emma what she had to do, but now...something else is going on and you’re overstepping, aren’t you? Wouldn’t this count as influencing fate?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Will asks, and Belle looks almost overjoyed. Killian’s grin is enormous. It’s probably a library thing.  
  
“Any sort of seer, shouldn’t influence anything,” Belle says. “That’s how all the old legends work. They’re simply the monitors of fate. They don’t influence. Unless--”

“--Something happened,” Killian finishes. “What was it?”

The seeress doesn’t answer immediately and Emma wonders if they’ve somehow managed to offend a mythical being, but then she notices the way Killian’s jaw continues to tick and the tension between Ruby’s shoulders and she genuinely could not care less. 

She’s practically vibrating with magic. 

“It should not have been like this,” the seeress responds, taking care on each letter. “It should have been decided earlier. But changes were made and missteps and now there is more magic in this realm than any of us can prepare for. It’s unnatural.”  
  
“That all seems to kind of make sense for some guy called the Dark One, huh?” Will mutters, and Emma’s smile shakes its way across her face. “Just a generic asshole, ruining everything. So then we were right. Right? The Dark One and the minions came from...somewhere else.”  
  
“Probably wherever these mistakes were already made,” Belle adds. 

Emma’s brain can’t keep up with the speed of her thoughts. “Wait, wait, hold on! What mistakes? How can I mess up instructions I haven’t actually been given? I don’t--I don’t know how to fix magic or--”  
  
“--Em,” Ruby cuts in, looking like it pains her to do so. “Your magic was...off the charts yesterday. And Mary Margaret did say there was that surge a couple of days ago. It’s what got the Dark One here.”  
  
Will sounds like he’s choking. “Just failed to mention that, didn’t we?”  
  
“Scarlet,” Killian chides, and the noises stop almost immediately. “Alright, say we agree with that. Emma’s magic got stronger once she got to New York.”  
  
“To you, Captain,” the seeress corrects. “Only to you.”  
  
Killian’s eyebrows jump, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek again. “How does she makes sure the Dark One stops being a threat?”  
  
“By not repeating past mistakes.”  
  
“Yeah, we got that,” Emma yells. “Strangely enough that doesn’t help me right now. What do I have to do?”

The seeress stares at her – as much as that’s possible for someone distinctly lacking eyes – pulling her hands up slowly and Emma holds her breath. Not on purpose. The air shifts slightly, a low breeze that brushes Emma’s hair and makes the ends of the blankets she’s still inexplicably wrapped in flutter. And it takes forever, a small eternity of impatience and power and the seeress rocks forward with a steady rhythm that sets Emma’s teeth on edge. 

“Where time is no more, below the surface, a blade that is sure--”  
  
“--Holy shit, it’s in verse,” Will mutters, disbelief coloring his laugh. 

Emma shrugs. “That’s how it always seems to work.”  
  
“Able to cut, erase the past, ensure that we are but, instruments of a future in light.”  
  
“That was more slant rhyme than anything really,” Killian muses, Belle making a noise of agreement. Ruby’s shoulders shake trying not to laugh.

So, they’re really all coping with this well. 

“Did anyone understand any of that?” Ruby asks. She’s met with four identical head shakes and the seeress drops her arms back to her side. “So, just more questions and a distinct lack of answers. Super. That’s super.”  
  
“The blade,” the seeress says, any mysticism gone when the words turn hard and Belle has started researching again. “You need it. It’s the only way.”

Emma’s mouth drops – a million and two questions, so naturally she doesn’t ask any of them because the lights flare again and Killian’s hand flexes at his side, reaching for something that isn’t there and--

“Fucking hell,” Emma groans. The seeress is gone. “The sword. What Ursula was talking about. Shit, goddamn, fuck it all to hell.”  
  
“That was creative,” Will says approvingly. “Should we make another list?”  
  
Ruby holds up one finger. “We may be right about other realms, the Dark One is recruiting people, the seeress is kind of an asshole who made Jones see some shit he really did not want to and, uh...she called him Captain again.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s admittedly kind of freaking me out,” Belle says. 

“Me too,” Killian agrees, the smile he flashes Emma direction almost a little insulting in how bad it actually is. 

“We don’t know what that meant,” she argues. It’s empty. He used the word _aye_. And she didn’t think that was weird. “Although the sword thing does give me pause. Do we know of any mythical swords just hanging out in New York?”  
  
She turns towards Belle, hoping the answer will be obvious, but that seems like too much to ask and all Emma gets is another quick head shake. “I can name some very impressive swords from a variety of fantasy series if that helps.”  
  
“What, like, Sting?” Will asks. “That’s a lame one.”  
  
“Didn’t that one glow?” Emma counters, and maybe they’re all only capable of coping with this if they mock it. That might not be the worst thing in the world. 

“It did. When Orcs were around. Are we also fighting Orcs? Because I feel like I seriously draw the line at that.”

“That’s what does it, huh?” Ruby asks, hopping onto the counter and refilling her mug. “Not the suddenly appearing creepy lady of fate.”  
  
“Good name, honestly.”  
  
“And if this all comes down to finding Frodo’s sword, then I’m going to be really disappointed,” Killian says. He pulls Emma’s back against his chest, hooking his chin over his shoulder, a move that’s equal parts decidedly _relationship_ and even more comforting. Will arches an eyebrow. “Anduril or nothing.”  
  
“Are you kidding me?”  
  
“You don’t think I could pull off that sword?”  
  
“I think you’re insane to even begin to suggest that you are remotely in the realm of being anywhere close Aragorn.”  
  
Emma clicks her tongue. “Oh, yeah, that’s kind of rough.”  
  
“Swan!”  
  
“I mean…” She shrugs. “I think it’s a very close second.”  
  
“She’s lying to you,” Will promises. “It’s not even a close seventy-second.”  
  
“Can we get out of the realm of Tolkien here?” Ruby pleads. “It’s so boring. So many trees.”  
  
“Ents.”  
  
“Trees. And if we’re going to fly with this Ursula was telling the truth about Jones having some kind of magical sword that Emma, maybe, enchanted in a reality that none of us actually remember, maybe we should make a few more assumptions.”

Belle stops typing. “Like?”  
  
“Like when I found Emma and Killian outside the apartment the other day, I made, what I thought, was a very funny joke. Only it wasn’t apparently all that funny and--”  
  
“--Captain,” Emma breathes. “They keep calling you captain.”  
  
“They keep calling you princess,” Will points out. She waves him off, staring intently at Killian and the pinch between his brows is a cavern. 

His eyes are impossibly blue. 

Like the goddamn ocean. 

She can’t believe she thought that. 

“So did you, love,” he whispers. “In the library. You were...well, you were making jokes as well, but that was the first thing you thought.”  
  
“And you think that’s my latent knowledge of you? And your history with the ocean?”  
  
“I have no idea. I’m grasping at straws, but maybe?”  
  
“It’s kind of romantic,” Will reasons, Emma gaping at him. He shrugs. “What? It is. Tripping, Emma. Straight up tripping over himself, all week.”

“So,” Ruby says. “Anyone know any famous sailor swords? Harpoons, maybe?”  
  
Emma sighs. “You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”

“I disagree. C’mon, name a sailor. John Paul Jones. Horatio Hornblower?”  
  
“I don’t think he had a specific sword,” Belle mutters, a quick when smile when Killian mutters _I am not Horatio Hornblower_ under his breath. And Emma is almost disappointed it takes her so long to figure it out, but it’s also been a _morning_ and a night and she needs an IV of coffee. 

“A knight,” she says. “Ursula said that too and--that’s what the prophecy was. Rubes, Rubes, that’s...you remember that, right?”  
  
Ruby nods slowly. “But I made the sailor joke.”  
  
“And I’m not disagreeing with that, I'm just...we’re running with this Ursula might have been telling the truth thing. And if Killian was right and the seeress is breaking the rules, picking a side to make sure that we can do something right here, then...I don’t know, maybe we shouldn’t ignore prophecy.”  
  
“I’ve got it,” Belle announces, and she’s incredibly efficient. “It’s um...well, she said below the surface. I think this is it. Track 61.”  
  
“I’ve never heard of that,” Will says. 

Killian closes his eyes. “I have.”  
  
“It’s an old storage track,” Belle explains. “Pretty much right underneath the Waldorf Astoria. It hasn’t been used in forever, but it’s never been demolished because it’s underground. It’s part of the Grand Central complex, this old thing, hidden in plain sight. It’s connected to a couple other lines, and is right next to a private platform from Metro North.”  
  
“And you think there’s some kind of mythical sword hidden there?”  
  
“Yeah, I do. It was used. Years ago. By major political figures. FDR. Douglas MacArthur. Andy Warhol.”  
  
“Are we calling Andy Warhol a political figure?” Will asks lightly, snapping his mouth closed when Belle glares at him. 

“What I’m getting at is big-name people were here and, uh...there’s a rumor about this place.”

Killian sighs. Emma resists the urge to do the same. “What?” he asks. “Haunted by ghosts? An army only Aragorn can summon and control?”  
  
Belle’s eyes are no more than slits when she slams her laptop shut, an aura of something around her that certainly isn’t magic, but might just be determination. It’s impressive, whatever it is. The power of the librarian, maybe.

“No,” she snaps, expression softening slightly when she meets Killian’s gaze. “It’s said that there are marks there similar to those spotted in England. The most popular rumor is that it was once inhabited by the descendants of one of the knights of the round table. They say that’s where Excalibur is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still incredibly nice that you guys click and read all these words. Thanks! 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	5. Chapter 5

Regina’s eye keeps twitching. 

It’s happened six times in the last five minutes. It’s unnerving. 

“You’re sighing very loudly, love,” Killian mutters, the words pressed against the side of Emma’s arm. They’re more or less sharing the same chair, Emma perched on the side with Killian’s fingers tracing absent-minded patterns against her back. 

She tries to focus on that. And sighs again. 

“It’s because she keeps making that face,” Emma reasons. She does her best to keep her voice down – Ruby on the phone with the contingent from Storybrooke because they’d spent no more than a few moments processing the idea of Excalibur before they realized they needed to come up with a plan. 

And confirm that Excalibur was a real thing. 

Regina is the only person who would know that. 

“Yeah, she does have that eye thing happening quite a bit, doesn’t she?” Killian asks. “Is that a normal thing for her?”  
  
Emma makes a contrary noise in the back of her throat. “She’s always kind of...I don’t know, is tense an insult?”  
  
“Depends on the context, I suppose.”  
  
“Very much so in this context,” Regina snaps, and Emma winces. She clearly was not doing a very good job of keeping her voice down. “Yeah,” Regina nods. “Strangely enough, I can still hear you.”  
  
“I didn’t want to bother you,” Emma says, but that’s an excuse and a lie and neither one of them are very good. 

Regina’s eye twitches again. “Sure you didn’t. You just called after several days of rather resounding radio silence and--”  
  
“--Silence can’t be loud, Madam Mayor.” Her eye stops twitching. It narrows, instead. That’s ten-thousand times worse. “Whatever, I’m just saying.”  
  
“And I am just saying that the idea of Excalibur is more of a myth than the Dark One. It’s…” Regina shakes her head, waving both hands in the air and that might be more disconcerting than anything else that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. Which is saying a lot. 

She looks worried. And incredulous. And there’s just a hint of terror on the edge of her suddenly-still eyes. 

“I don’t think we can deny the existence of the Dark One, right?” Will asks. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, back leaning up against Belle’s bent legs because they might have gotten out of the kitchen eventually, but she resolutely refused to stop researching. 

Emma’s fairly certain she’s looking up the history of every single knight of the round table. 

There are, apparently, quite a few. 

The phone in Storybrooke changes hands, more than a few mumbled curses and actual curses of the magical variety. There’s still a bruise on David’s cheek. “Who are you again?” he asks sharply, lips going dangerously thin. 

Emma’s whole body shifts when she sighs that time.

“Don’t do that, Em,” David chastises. “This is...I mean, that’s a fair question right? Regina’s got a point. We’ve barely heard from you for days, which, you know, we weren’t worried you were dead or anything.”  
  
Emma scrunches her nose, something that feels a hell of a lot like shame slinking down her spine. Ruby lets out a low whistle. “Jeez, Deputy, laying it on almost a little too thick, huh?”  
  
“He’s your Deputy?” Killian asks, genuine interest in the question. She shrugs. 

“Don’t let him hear you call him that. I think he secretly hates it.”  
  
“Oh my God,” David groans. “I do not hate it. I--you know what? That is not the point. The point is that a million things have happened here and now you’re calling from some stranger’s apartment telling us that you got attacked by minions and were told the only way to defeat the Dark One was to find some sword that shouldn’t exist.”

He makes an absolutely absurd noise as soon as his jaw snaps shut – all frustration and fury and his fingers flexing quickly, a move he’d been using as long as Emma can remember to help funnel his magic.  
  
It’s oddly similar to what Ursula claimed Killian was doing in the bar. That’s probably not important. 

“Should I repeat myself about the obvious status of the Dark One?” Will asks again, and Emma lets her head fall forward. 

She’s exhausted, drained, like her muscles are overstretched and hanging off her bones and every visual her brain comes up with is worse than the last. The weight of the world is, in fact, incredibly heavy. 

“I don’t think you have to do that,” Mary Margaret says reasonably, moving into the frame with a soft smile that almost helps Emma’s magic settle. “Also, um...because we have some news too.”

Emma’s head snaps up as quickly as it fell, every single inch of her spine cracking in the process. She almost falls off the chair, any _other_ emotion she’d been feeling a moment before immediately transforming into pure, powerful magic. 

There are sparks at the ends of her fingers. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Emma mutters, shaking her hand like that will help. It does not. If anything it makes it worse, light and heat flying off her in equal measure and threaten to set Belle’s area rug on fire. 

That would be kind of rude. All things considered. 

“Whoa,” Will breathes, and that’s a fair reaction. All things considered. Again. “Is that normal?”  
  
Ruby shakes her head slowly, but Emma knows that’s also a fairly pitiful lie and she must have been about thirteen years old. It had been warm, sweat dotting her temple and pooling at the bottom of her spine and Emma snuck out of the house. 

She hadn’t run, couldn’t really, it was far too hot for that, but every step took her further away from the center of town, a meandering path that led directly to the harbor and the docks and the water. She can still remember the smell of the salt, stinging her nose and settling on her tongue and she hadn’t been sleeping very well. 

Her magic had been too strong for that. 

It flared unexpectedly, a burst of power and flash of light and no one seemed to know what to do with it. It scared her. Because she scared everyone else. 

And Emma doesn’t really remember much, but she knows she sat on the edge of the dock, feet dangling over the top of barely cresting waves, trying to fix herself. She was positive there was something inherently wrong with her. 

She needed to do something. 

Of course, she couldn’t do anything. Magic doesn’t work like that. It appears and exists and has to be accepted to be understood, but Emma was thirteen and no one told her any of that and she never really understood what happened next. 

The memory is hazy, like she’s staring at the scene through warped glass, but she knows there were sparks at the ends of her fingers, an energy that surged through her – from the tip of her head to the heels of her feet and she was positive she was only a moment away from combusting. Until she wasn’t. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, salt-filled air and heat that left her cheeks more than just a little red, letting herself be. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just Emma. 

As if that was enough. 

And she knew – _knows, present tense_ – it was impossible, there was no one else there, but Emma can’t shake the feeling, the brush of fingers against the back of her hand and a quiet _it’s ok, you’re ok_ that settled in the back of her consciousness like it was, simply, waiting for her to remember it. 

That may, however, have something to do with the voice saying those exact words in this exact moment. Presently. Again. 

“Hey, hey,” Killian murmurs, crouching in front of Emma with his thumb on her lip. She’s biting it, that’s why. “It’s ok. You’re ok. Just breathe, love.”  
  
Emma nods, not sure if she’s agreeing or just hoping that she can agree. “Is the rug on fire?”  
  
“No. And it’d be a mercy killing if it was.”  
  
“Hey,” Belle says. She’s still typing. “I mean--ok, that’s actually kind of fair.”  
  
Killian hums, and Emma doesn’t have to open her eyes to know that he’s smiling. She does anyway. “No burns, right? Not to the rug. You. I’m…”  
  
“I know what you’re asking, Swan,” Killian cuts in, and Emma can barely make out Mary Margaret’s quiet questions from the phone Ruby is still holding. “And also no. I’m fine. We’re fine, ok?”  
  
She nods again, shaking her hair off her shoulders like that will get rid of some of the excess heat lingering around her. Emma feels impossibly warm, like the goddamn sun or something. 

Like someone whose magic is freaking the fuck out. 

“So, uh…” Ruby starts, barely moving her lips when she speaks, “when’s the last time you lost control like that?”  
  
“Years,” Emma answers honestly. “Not since I was a kid. God, that was horrible.”  
  
“Yeah, it wasn’t the best to watch if I’m being perfectly honest.”  
  
“That’s not helpful,” Killian hisses, and his knees have got to be killing him. That position doesn’t look comfortable at all. 

“Ok, who did the seeress refer to as protector before, sailor?” Killian glares at her. “Yeah,” Ruby nods. “That’s what I thought. I win or whatever.”  
  
“Whatever,” Emma echoes. She inhales sharply, letting it out almost immediately and that’s probably a mistake. Her vision is still a little fuzzy, but they’ve got a world to save and maybe her magic will be normal if they do something about the several imminent threats bearing down on all of them. 

“Wait, was that a joke?” David asks, disbelief in the question and his eyebrows pulled low. “About the guy?”  
  
“Which guy?”  
  
“He’s the hallway guy, isn’t it he?” Regina mutters knowingly, and Emma should not still be able to feel embarrassment after spending the last few seconds lighting up like several fireworks. The world, however, does not seem to care.  
  
Will snickers. “Look, Jones, it’s cool that you were so weird about it, Emma’s fighting super evil and she’s still talking about you with her friends.”  
  
Maybe Emma’s face is the thing that caught on fire. 

She refuses to make eye contact with Killian, but...something, something, _it doesn’t matter_. Her gaze pulls up anyway, and he’s not smirking at her the way she expects. He’s staring at her, heavy and intent, like she’s the single most important thing in however many realms there may actually be. 

They’re all very bad at having a concise conversation. 

“Yeah,” Emma says, but the word doesn’t really sound like it comes from her. It sounds a little breathless and a little hopeful and she’s not either one of those things. She’s alone on the edge of the Storybrooke dock with magic roaring through her and the fear that no one will ever be able to contend with the loneliness that wraps itself around her like heat on a summer day. 

Until…

She’s insane. 

“You’re thinking something, David,” Ruby accuses. “What is it?”  
  
David shakes his head. “I’ve got no idea. I thought I--let Mary Margaret tell you, she’s the one who talked to the guy.”  
  
“A different guy than hallway guy?”  
  
“Obviously,” Killian grumbles. “I’m sitting right here.”  
  
“Also, crouching if you want to get technical.”  
  
“I do not want to get technical.”  
  
“At least about this, maybe,” Belle adds, fingers flying across keys. “Hey did you guys know that Sir Gawain had a brother?” No one answers. That doesn’t deter her. Emma is not surprised. “Yeah, yeah,” she continues, “he was named a Knight by Lancelot after he won a sword in a jousting competition. That’s a fun fact, right?”  
  
“What happened to him?” Killian asks, and Emma gets the very strong feeling he already knows the answer. 

Belle grimaces. “He, uh...he died. Lancelot kills him. By accident though, so, you know, that’s kind of nice!”

“Does this have a point?” Regina hisses. “We are a little strapped for time.”

“I’m just trying to find something that may help. If we’re going to try and get Excalibur sooner rather than later, we should know as much as we can about the knights, right?” Regina doesn’t answer. Emma’s never going to stop sighing. 

Killian kisses the curve of her shoulder. 

“Not really a lot known about Gareth. That’s this guy’s name, by the way. He was close to Lancelot, though. Didn’t want to rest on his brother’s laurels, either. So, another bonus point. Wanted to prove himself and make his own name and wasn’t all that interested in just blindly following Arthur.”  
  
“Yuh huh,” Regina says. “Fascinating.”  
  
“Regina,” Mary Margaret chides. It doesn’t do any good – Emma didn’t think it would, but she’s still riding this _hope_ thing and she refuses to be held accountable for whatever her emotions do when Killian continues to look at her like that. 

“Ok,” Emma says, hand reaching for Killian’s without much thought. He winks at her. Ridiculous. “Can we, um...can we try and figure something out? As much as I would love to know about very specific Knights of the Round Table--”  
  
“--There were only twelve,” Belle interrupts, mumbling a quick apology when Regina’s glare grows even more pointed. 

Emma’s jaw aches when she clicks her teeth together. “M’s, who is this guy you were talking to? Does it have to do with the sword?”

Mary Margaret nods, flashing Emma a sympathetic smile – and she hadn’t noticed before that there’s a fairly deep cut on the side of her face. “I’m fine,” she says, answering a question Emma hasn’t actually asked. “It’s...well, it hurt like hell, actually, but--”  
  
“--Oh my God, that might be the most incredible thing that’s happened today,” Ruby crows, a whoop of laughter and an arm slung around Emma’s shoulders. 

“The hallway guy is right,” Mary Margaret says. “You’re not making this any easier. And, uh...well, this is pretty important. In that we’ve also been dealing with a minion.”

Emma tries to tug her hand back to her side – before it can spark again, but Killian’s grip tightens, pulling her arm up lightly to brush his lips over the bend of her knuckles. “Still fine, Swan.” He twists his head up, turning his gaze to Mary Margaret. She doesn’t blink. That’s probably a good thing. “How did you get cut, ma’am?”  
  
Ruby snickers. Mary Margaret looks impressed. 

Emma kind of feels like she’s dying. 

“Oh, uh,” Mary Margaret stammers. “Well, the minion, guy, really--he’s a guy, he claims his name is Isaac, but, um...he was hiding out in the library when we found him and he kind of...slashed me.”  
  
Definitely dying.

Emma’s eyes bug, jaw dropping and breath rushing out of her in a sound that is far more dramatic than a run-of-the-mill sigh. “Are you kidding me?” 

“It’s not that bad.”  
  
“She’s lying,” David objects. “It’s definitely that bad, but we didn’t want to overshadow your bad and impossible with our equally bad and maybe even more impossible.”  
  
“You all are terrible conversationalists,” Will says. “Honestly, it’s no wonder your magic is dying, you can’t string more than a few words together at a time.”

“Remember that time we saved you?” Ruby asks archly. 

“Nuh uh. We got that amulet back on you. That’s like a trillion points in whatever magical point system you guys are running with.”  
  
“That’s just an Emma and Jones flirting thing. I want no part in that.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, fair.”  
  
“You know, we’re still sitting right here,” Killian sneers. 

Will hums. “True, true. Ok, I promise not to interrupt with anymore pointed opinions if someone will actually tell me what is going on. That’s also fair, right?”  
  
“I still have no idea who you are,” David says. His eyes flit to Emma when she makes another noise – and they’re just getting more and more depressing at this point – expression turning understanding because they’ve spent far too much time together. There’s really not that much crime in Storybrooke. Usually. 

The whole magical attack is kind of a weird, statistical outlier. 

“You ok, Em?” 

She scoffs, lips quirking up anyway and David hasn’t actually asked for more information about Killian. Emma can’t quite wrap her mind around that. Maybe it’s also an outlier. “Just waiting for your guys’ news and how I can go steal Excalibur.”  
  
“You’re not stealing it,” Regina objects. “Taking it, yes. Because it’s very likely yours.That is, of course, if it even exists.”  
  
“You’re genuinely a beacon of hope, your majesty,” Ruby drawls, Killian jerking slightly at the title. Emma blinks at the sight, more than a little surprised because she can see the flicker of recognition flash across his features and--  
  
“The minion claims he’s the reason they’re all here,” Mary Margaret says suddenly. The room freezes. Killian’s grip turns vice-like. 

“What does that mean?” Emma asks, fairly positive she doesn’t actually want the answer. “Here. As in they came from somewhere else. Another realm somewhere else?”  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
“Our minions claimed the same thing. Said this was the Land Without Magic and that it had taken some time for them to get here, but…” 

Emma glances at Killian, not sure when they started being able to communicate telepathically, but it’s kind of nice. So is the smile she gets in return. 

“Ursula, a mythical sea witch who seemed determined to drown us all with a soda gun, suggested that I was not who I believe I am,” Killian explains. “She and her dog-controlling friend--”  
  
“--Wait, wait,” Mary Margaret gasps. “Dog controlling? Like Cruella?” Killian nods. “That’s who Isaac knows. Ok, the random guy is right, we’re honestly all awful at this.”  
  
“I do have a name, you know,” Will mutters, but no one glances his direction and Belle appears to have stopped typing. Her eyes are very wide. 

Mary Margaret nods enthusiastically. “And I promise I will learn it at some point, but right now, I think both of our minion situations are connected. Also it may explain how Excalibur got here.”  
  
“Where are you going with this, M’s?” Emma asks. “And how did you get hurt?”  
  
“I told you that, already. Isaac did it. He--ok, this is exactly what happened. Yesterday, probably around the same time you were all being drowned via soda gun, David and I were patrolling the town. It’s been relatively quiet since He left, but we know there are still people here and magic is still spiking and surging and nothing is consistent. 

So we’ve been trying to make sure that everyone we know is staying safe. We went into the library when we saw a light in one of the windows and that’s where we found Isaac. He was sitting in the corner, books strewn everywhere.”  
  
“But they all had a very similar theme,” David says, Emma’s eyebrows jumping at the addition. “Fairy tales. And legends. Things that were very similar to what you were looking up before.”

“Fairy tales,” Emma repeats. “Why?”  
  
“He said it was research,” Mary Margaret. “For getting back. To where we’re all from.”  
  
Emma genuinely has no response for that. Everyone else, however, does. Killian shakes his head and Ruby curses under her breath and Will’s laugh sounds like he’s coming unhinged just a little bit. 

“I’m just the messenger,” Mary Margaret continues. “We found him there, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. And the smell--” She shivers, both hands lifted in something that is as close as she’s ever gotten to disgust. “Anyway, we wanted to know what he was doing and he said he was finishing the job, researching where it went wrong for us. In our story.”  
  
Emma blinks. “That’s insane.”  
  
“Yeah, well…”  
  
“And how did you get cut?”  
  
“He kind of, uh...lunged at me? He started monologue'ing. We wanted to know what he was doing there and he said he was the one who brought them to this realm. He kept using that phrase. This realm. Said he wrote it that way and if he wrote it, then it had to come true.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“He claims he’s a magical author,” Regina says, sounding more than a little bored. “He thinks he’s got a special pen that, if he uses very specific blood--”  
  
“--I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“Do you want to hear the story or not, Ms. Swan?” Emma rolls her eyes. “That’s what I thought. This man claims if he uses a specific person’s blood in his pen he can rewrite their entire life story, transport them from one realm to another and, he claims, that he’s the reason Storybrooke was attacked. That he wrote it that way, brought the Dark One and his minions here. So that they could regain what was rightfully his.”

“He used that phrasing exactly?” Ruby asks. “His?”  
  
Regina’s answering nod is quick and a little twitchy, as if she can’t decide if she actually wants to move her head. “I thought that was strange too, but, like I said, he’s adamant. Says he can prove it if we just give him some paper.”  
  
“Because he can teleport people?”  
  
“It’s not just that,” May Margaret says. “He thinks he can change it all. That’s how he knows Cruella. Said he wrote it so that she could control any kind of animal she comes in contact with.”

“Shit, that’s terrifying,” Will muses, Emma humming in agreement. “And how exactly did he meet the Dark One? On a double date with Cruella and her dogs?”  
  
“He claims the Dark One found him,” Regina answers. “Was looking for a way out of a place he calls Misthaven.”

“To the Land Without Magic,” David says. 

Emma opens her mouth. Only to close it. And open it again. Her jaw cracks more than once. “But that’s not true,” she argues. “This isn’t a land without magic. I teleported us here last night. That was some pretty serious magic.”  
  
“Did you seriously?”  
  
“Yeah,” she laughs, a wholly out of place reaction to her own potential control and possible power. Killian squeezes her hand. “So this guy’s a great, big, giant liar, right?”  
  
Regina clicks her tongue. “I don’t know.”  
  
“What? What do you mean you don’t know?”  
  
“Exactly what those words mean in that order. This man is...he seems to at least be cognizant. And he was very adamant that it was Mary Margaret’s blood he needed. Said something about kismet and how that would help us all when this was over.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“So we could get home.”  
  
Emma cannot possibly shake her head more. She’s going to hurt her throat if she sighs again. “Is that not what I’m trying to do now?”  
  
“This guy claims we aren’t from here,” Regina says, barely more than a whisper and Emma’s never heard her use that tone. Like she’s just as scared as the rest of them. “He is under the impression that we are all part of the royal family of the court of Misthaven.”  
  
Will’s laugh is uproarious. It grates on Emma’s ears. 

She doesn’t make a single nose, mind racing far too quickly to do that while she tries to piece together bits of a puzzle she didn’t realize she was trying to figure out. She’s going to need stitches in her lower lip. 

“That’s what they were saying,” Belle breathes. “Ursula and the dog lady. They kept calling Emma _your highness_ when we were in the bar. They were surprised she didn’t understand. Like...it should have been obvious.”  
  
“Well, if I were a royal I’d be upset I forgot about it,” Will shrugs. 

Emma still can’t quite remember how to form words, and the grip on her hand has turned alarmingly slack in the last few moments. That helps with the word thing. “Babe,” she mumbles, ignoring whatever noise both Mary Margaret and David make at that. “Hey, what’s--you’re thinking something.”  
  
Killian’s mouth quirks up, not quite a smile, but almost and Emma figures almost is about as good as she can expect right now. “You said the Dark One was a story when you were young, right? A nightmare?”

“Yeah.”  
  
“And he could do what, exactly?”  
  
“You mean, like, magic wise?” Killian nods solemnly, and Emma’s mind drifts back to stories she heard when she was a kid, muted voices and quiet threats and...a flicker of candlelight and flash of darkness and--

_“What are you doing here?”_  
_  
“I wanted to see you.”_  
_  
“Swan, that’s--”_ _  
  
“--C’mon, don’t do that. It’s...ok, I know you probably can’t, but it’s been weeks, Killian and…” She makes a disgruntled noise when he curls his fingers around her shoulder, a quick tap of his thumb against the sleeve of her dress and the sun is warm on the back of her neck. _

_The smell of salt is impossibly strong._

_“What did you want to do?” Her eyes widen. She knows they do, but it’s the last thing she expected to hear and her smile feels impossibly large. He arches an eyebrow. “That’s not an answer, love.”_

_She clicks her tongue, but there’s still that pesky smile and whatever feels like it’s fluttering in between her ribs. “David heard a rumor that there was a ship here from--”_

_“--DunBroch.”_  
  
_“It’s not fun when you know the secret.”_  
  
_He hums, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to lean forward and kiss her. He doesn't. That’s disappointing. “Very chatty docks. Although the ship is something to see.”_  
  
_“Have you seen it?”_ _  
  
“No, I didn’t want to spoil the surprise when I knew you’d want to.” She doesn’t make any noise that time, and his smile may rival the size of hers, rocking into her space with an easy sense of calm that makes the lack of kissing all the more disappointing. “Because, Swan, you are impossibly curious and incredibly determined.”_

_“Yeah, but you love it,” she snaps back without thinking much to the words._

_He doesn’t flinch. “Aye, I do.”_

“Emma!”  
  
Mary Margaret’s voice is shrill, clearly not the first time she’s tried to get Emma’s attention. Her muscles ache again, but it isn’t the exhaustion from earlier. It’s tension, as if they’re twisted and knotted, bundled bits of magic that feels a little desperate. 

To remember. 

Something. 

Misthaven is a ridiculous name. 

“The Dark One was evil,” Emma responds, well aware how lame her explanation is. “It was...we were told he was out to gain all of magic. To twist it into something horrible, bend us all to his will. Magic is personal, like I told you, almost selfish, even, but the stories of the Dark One were different. He wanted to take that personal connection and warp him to him, become the center of everything anyone with a hint of magic did.”  
  
“He wanted to control it,” Regina says, and that’s a much more succinct response. “And we know that’s what he wants to do now.”

“Have you seen that?” Killian asks. “Actually seen this man do magic?”  
  
“What does it matter?”  
  
“The minions have done it. We saw that here and obviously this Isaac claims he can do magic as well, so we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. But did you see this so-called Dark One actually do anything? Or just demand Emma?”  
  
Regina blanches. 

“You don’t think he’s got magic,” Emma breathes, not sure why the feeling of absolute dread has settled in the pit of her stomach. 

Killian tilts his head. “I’m not sure what I’m thinking, really. It’s just...you said magic was disappearing and the villains keep calling this the Land Without Magic. You don’t think that’s a coincidence, do you?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re saying.”  
  
He chuckles lightly, a quick press of his lips to Emma's. She tries not to chase after him. It absolutely does not work. “Is this normal now?” David mumbles, Ruby making a face that Emma hopes is some kind of agreement. 

“What I’m saying is that I think it’s interesting that the Dark One hasn’t done anything since leaving Storybrooke,” Killian says. “We haven’t been shy about being here, Swan. Or even about what we’re trying to do. The minions showed, magical as ever, but no menacing Dark One come to try and steal your magic.”

“That’s actually a really good point.”  
  
“It happens from time to time.”  
  
There’s the smirk – just as potent as ever, particularly when Killian’s eyes do that flashy, flirty, bluer than normal thing, and Emma’s half a second away from kissing the ever-living daylights out him when she hears Regina start talking again. 

Arguing, really. Figures. 

“That man is the Dark One,” she says, no hint of doubt in her voice. “I know it. I--I can’t explain why I know, but I do.”  
  
“That’s not exactly the strongest defense,” Ruby points out. 

“And does kind of add some fuel to the this is not the right home fire,” Mary Margaret adds, a twist of frustration to her mouth. “That’s a terrible name. We need a better name for that.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s what we need,” Emma agrees. “Can we backtrack for a second? Regina, I need to know if Excalibur is an option. We can contend with the Dark One and wherever he came from later and--”  
  
“--Wait, wait, we don’t think that’s important too?” Ruby balks. “If we’re all forgetting who we are, then that seems like a pretty major thing, right?”  
  
“And it does explain how Excalibur could get here,” Belle says. She flinches when every head in the living room snaps towards her, David muttering something that sounds a hell of a lot like _oh, I like her_ in Storybrooke. “Right?”  
  
“Talk it out,” Ruby suggests. “You think Isaac wrote Excalibur to show up in midtown Manhattan so Emma could defeat the darkness when he finally decides to show up?”

“I don’t know about that, but all I’m saying is that if there are other realms where magic isn’t just contained to one small town in Maine, it’s entirely possible that it could have existed. And if the Dark One is as powerful as you are all worried about, then don’t you think he could have crossed realms?”  
  
“This is making my head hurt,” Will whines. “How many realms do we think there are?”  
  
Regina’s eye stopped twitching long ago, but she’s sitting straighter than she had at the beginning of the phone call and Emma feels like they’re all about to get grounded. “There’s something you're not telling me, Regina,” Emma says. “If we’re going to do this we’ve got to be honest with each other, don’t you think?”  
  
She doesn’t answer immediately, shoulders shifting when she inhales. Emma feels like she’s back on the dock, balancing precariously over waves that have turned choppy and dangerous and Killian’s never going to be able to stand back up. 

His thighs have probably frozen that way. 

She needs to stop thinking about his thighs so much. 

_That was them. Again. She knows it._

“I don’t appreciate being told what to do,” Regina says cooly, an obvious act that’s kind of offensive at this point. 

“And I don’t appreciate having some seeress showing up in someone else’s kitchen announcing I’m making mistakes I can’t remember.”  
  
“Has it been happening to you too?”  
  
“You’ll have to be more specific, Regina.”

She huffs, tongue swiping over her teeth. “I’ve seen things,” she says shortly, Mary Margaret’s eyes bugging behind her. “Not often. Just...sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly magical. And there’s no rhyme or reason to it. None of it makes sense, these flashes of...whatever. But, well, the last day we spoke to you it happened.”

“And?”  
  
“And I was in a castle, standing on a stone floor with a voice in my ear, telling me to get it right. Over and over, nothing good enough. Nothing working the way I wanted it to.” Regina swallows, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It kept going, for what felt like hours. Until I--I’ve never felt that kind of magic, not here, at least. I looked down and there was fire in my hand.”  
  
“Fire?” Emma repeats, Killian tensing in front of her. “What did you do with it?”  
  
“I threw it at the man’s face. A face that looked incredibly similar to the man who walked over the town line and demanded you, Savior.”

“And you knew that was the Dark One?” Killian asks skeptically. Regina blinks. 

“I did, yes.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“Articulate.”  
  
“Not all of us can have such pointed opinions and overwhelming certainty, your majesty.”

They’re all going to fuck up their muscles and spines completely before the night is over. The whole room freezes, eyes going wide with hanging jaws and Belle has started typing again. As if that will help distract her. Emma rolls her shoulders, trying to look at Killian and Ruby and Mary Margaret at the same time. 

None of it works. 

She hopes that’s not going to become some kind of trend. 

Killian shakes his head – like he’s shaking away cobwebs or those same vaguely pointed memories and the shadow that clouds his gaze makes it difficult to see the blue there. Emma’s tongue is doing that disgusting thing again. 

“Excalibur,” she says brusquely. “Regina, is that possible? Could a sword like Excalibur actually do something to the Dark One?”  
  
Silence. Deafening silence. Well, kind of. Regina is breathing very loudly. There are tears in her eyes. 

“Regina,” Emma repeats. “If it’s possible for Excalibur to be here, I have to find it. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”  
  
She laughs. Also offensive. “None of this makes sense, Emma. We’re remembering things that have never happened. A mad man with a bloody pen claims he can bring us back to a place where magic can thrive and some non-magic plebe,” she nods in Killian’s direction, “thinks he can tell me that the Dark One doesn’t actually have any power.”  
  
“That’s not an answer.”  
  
“Uh, I think I found something again,” Belle says, sounding nervous to join the conversation. That’s fair. Emma wishes she weren’t part of the conversation. “According to this legend Excalibur could cut ties. If I’m reading that correctly, I think that means using Excalibur--you know, stabbing it, like…”  
  
“Like a sword?” Killian drawls. 

“Shut up. Yes, like a sword. I think that means it could basically cleave the darkness from the person it’s connected to and destroy it.”  
  
“Wouldn’t that destroy the person too?” Emma asks, and the dread is growing. It’s climbing up the back of her throat and sits on her tongue, a dead weight that makes it difficult to breathe. 

She shouldn’t be breathing through her mouth. 

She’s really got to get better at breathing. 

“That’s what I’ve always heard,” Regina says, soft enough that Emma barely hears it at first. Killian’s wide-eyed response makes it obvious. “You’d have to kill him, Emma.”  
  
“Are you fucking kidding me?”  
  
“Did you not think that was a possibility, Em?” Ruby asks, but the pity in her voice makes Emma want to cry. There are tears in her eyes now too. 

“I don’t--I mean, yeah, I guess. But then there was no Olympian crystal and I thought maybe we could avoid the whole death thing.”  
  
“He’s not a good person, Emma,” Regina mutters. “He’s...alright, let’s play for a moment that Isaac is right. We’re not who we think we are and the Dark One came from an enchanted realm where magic exists in the clouds or something. If that’s possible, don’t we owe it our home, to ourselves, to make sure that something as powerful as the Dark One and the darkness can’t get back there? That we stop it here. For good?”

Emma’s crying. She hates it, but the tears clearly do not give a damn, falling fast and free, brands on her skin that mark her for every one of her emotional shortcomings. She sniffles, trying to act like an adult or a Savior, but she’s also still an orphan and the kid no one came after that day and she’s not as surprised by the thumb that brushes over her cheek as she would have been a few weeks ago. 

It’s nice. 

It’s...a lot more than nice, but Emma can only cope with so much at a time. Her magic jumps. And so do the ends of Killian’s mouth. 

“Yeah,” he says, and maybe Emma will just never have to ask a question again. “Almost always at this point.”  
  
“And that doesn’t freak you out?”  
  
“Like coming home, Swan.”

She exhales, oxygen her lungs probably could have used. “Ok, so um---”  
  
“--Emma,” Mary Margaret cuts in, soft and a little cautious, but with a hint of hope that is patented her. “That magic surge. The one that drew the Dark One and some of the minions. Did that time up with the hallway incident?”

"No," Ruby answers. "But, uh...I walked out the next morning and they were all tangled together. Emma and Jones."  
  
Honestly Emma won't ever have to talk again. 

Mary Margaret beams. “Oh, that’s good. That’s really, really good. And he can feel that?”  
  
“Wait, what?” David shouts, Regina gasping and Ruby jumping away from Emma like she’d been shocked. “This guy can feel your magic?”  
  
Emma nods. “And my magic kind of...freaked out when I saw him. Like it…like it knew him. Or had known him.”  
  
“Past tense?”  
  
“I’ve got no idea, David.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
Killian’s frustratingly silent, Emma pulling her eyes back towards him – but his thumb is moving again, and she’s not sure he even means to do it. “Yeah?” he asks again, far more desperate than she expects it to be. As if her answer my fix everything. 

Another nod. “Yeah,” she repeats. “Like coming home.”

His thighs are incredible. There’s no way he should be able to move as quickly as he does, but apparently science doesn’t matter to magic folk and those who inspire their magic. Killian surges up, lips catching Emma’s in a move that feels familiar and brand-new. His fingers fly into her hair, tugging her forward, like he’s nervous anything except occupying the same few inches of space is unacceptable. 

And Emma would be more than content to stay right there, desecrating another part of Belle’s apartment, but there are some other things going on and Regina sounds incredibly annoyed. 

She’s started clicking her tongue. In rhythm. 

“That sword,” she says. “If it’s there, then that’s it. I...that’s got to be it. You destroy the Dark One, figure out why your magic reacts to the hallway guy--”  
  
“--We’re really sticking with that name, huh?” Killian mumbles, and Emma can’t help her laugh. 

She likes him. 

She...keeps thinking about his thighs. And other stuff. Impossible stuff. 

_It was them._

Regina ignores him. “Magic has been stronger when you’ve felt things, Emma. That surge times up with you perfectly. You should have mentioned that, but it’s...well, it’s interesting.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“You don’t think so?”  
  
“I think I need to get to Track 61 under Grand Central Station as soon as possible and then figure out where the hell the Dark One is lurking.”  
  
“We might be able to help with that,” David says. “Ask Isaac what he knows.”  
  
“You think he’ll talk?”  
  
“I think I can make him talk.”  
  
“Foreboding,” Will and Ruby mutter in tandem, matching smiles that make this seem just a hint less terrifying than it absolutely is. 

Emma sighs, fingers brushing over a light scar on Killian’s cheek. She hadn’t noticed it before, but her touch moves there like there are magnets or history and his eyes flutter closed as soon as she touches him. “Ok,” she agrees. “Should I go now?”  
  
“I think you can wait until tomorrow,” Mary Margaret says, lifting her eyebrows when Emma tries to object. “We’ll talk to Isaac before you go. Deal?”  
  
“But--”  
  
“Deal?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma mumbles, more than a little petulant. “Deal.”

They order pizza. 

“If we’re going to try and save all of everything tomorrow, then I’ll be damned if we don’t get some good food,” Ruby declares, and the delivery guy who hasn’t quite left looks more than a little confused by those words in that specific order. 

Emma rolls her eyes. “You want to just...announce that to everyone?”

“I want to eat this entire pie by myself, but I’m a generous protector and I’ll let you guys have, you know, like, one slice each. Maybe.”  
  
“You’re right, that’s absolutely generous.”  
  
Ruby winks. And it goes from there – they have to order another pizza because Ruby does honestly eat a questionable amount and Emma learns Will hates eating the crust because “it’s just bread, Emma, what’s the point?” and Belle announces that _that_ is the single most troubling part of their relationship. They make color-coded charts and look up the blueprints of Track 61 and the histories of Track 61 and how Andy Warhol got in to throw that party one time. 

Supposedly. 

Emma has no idea what time is, eyelids are starting to droop and her muscles haven’t really stopped aching in the last few days, but the pain is a bit more acute than normal and walking into the kitchen laden down with several used plates and a few glasses pinched between her fingers is a very specific challenge. 

She doesn’t drop anything, though, so she assumes that’s a, quite literal, step in the right direction. And the footsteps that follow here aren’t entirely familiar, soft footfalls that are, mostly, masked by the patterned socks she’s wearing. 

Belle is, apparently, very into patterns. 

She ate all of Will’s discarded pizza crust. 

“Hey,” she says conversationally, as if she hadn’t spent most of her night staring at a laptop screen so Emma could fight and fix magic. “Are you ok?”  
  
Emma nearly drops things then. She licks her lips, the movement too quick to be entirely helpful, but she’s also suddenly very nervous. Belle’s smile is more than a little cautious. “That’s kind of a loaded question isn’t it?” she continues, and Emma makes a noise she hopes isn’t offensive.

Belle hums, jumping onto the counter and swinging her legs out and it all feels a little cyclical. Emma opens her mouth – still not entirely sure what she’s going to say, just certain she has to say something and--

“No, no, this isn’t one of those conversations,” Belle says quickly, holding both her hands up. Emma nearly bites her tongue in half. “Oh, God, that sounded combative too, that’s not what I’m trying to accomplish here.”  
  
“And what are you trying to accomplish?” Emma asks. “Because I feel like I should be apologizing for ruining your life and then also like...thanking on bended knee for possibly figuring everything out.”  
  
“Oh, I think I definitely figured everything out. I’m, at least, ninety-nine percent positive the research is accurate.”  
  
“Doesn’t leave much room for doubt.”

Belle nods enthusiastically. “That kind of does set us up for this conversation that I would like to reiterate is not an attack, nor is it an interrogation or anything except--” She tilts her head, waving her hands and Emma gets the distinct impression she’s trying to find the right word. “Curiosity,” Belle finishes. “About a few things.”  
  
“Only a few?”  
  
“Anything more might make both of our heads explode.”  
  
Emma lets out a shaky laugh, leaning back against the refrigerator behind her. The handle digs into her spine. “Yeah, that’s probably true. I’ve already destroyed enough of yours and Will’s property. I’d hate to fuck up your apartment too.”  
  
It’s not a funny joke. At best, it’s incredibly self-deprecating, but Belle stares at her like Emma’s just suggested _she’s_ the embodiment of darkness and her fingers reach up towards the collar of her shirt – like she’s trying to hold onto something. 

There’s nothing there. 

“I’m not blaming you,” Belle says, no trace of anything except honesty in her voice. “For anything. Really. I’m--would it be weird if I thanked you?”  
  
“For?”  
  
“See, this is kind of where my innate curiosity comes in to play. I know that you and Killian met each other for the first time in the hallway, but that’s...does it feel like that?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Quick answer.”  
  
“An easy one,” Emma shrugs. She’s genuinely going to get bruised by the refrigerator. It’s strange that the sentence isn’t the most absurd thing she’s heard recently. She really can’t wrap her mind around anyone hating pizza crust. “But, well I guess I’m kind of curious too.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured.”  
  
“Was that really what this conversation was?”  
  
“Eh. It’s a little selfish on my part because I really don’t like not understanding what’s going on and you have been my great mystery for the last few days. I’ve been trying to piece together what you and Ruby were doing since you first started requesting books. And I know Killian told you that because Will has been complaining about whatever Killian’s been doing with his face since the hallway incident happened.”

“We’ve really got to come up with another name for that,” Emma mumbles, drawing a quiet and maybe even understanding laugh out of Belle. “Killian told me that you got him his first job at the library. That he came here from--”  
  
“--Boston or so he said,” Belle cuts in.

“Is that distinct hint of disbelief new or has it been festering for awhile?”  
  
“Oh, the use of the word festering is not positive at all.”  
  
“And that’s not exactly an answer.”  
  
Belle grits her teeth, twisting her engagement ring on her finger. Emma does her best not to look at it. “There’s been no festering.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But,” she repeats, “there’s been...an almost abstract sense of wonder and slight confusion.”

That’s not the word Emma expects. “Confusion? About?”  
  
“The timeline of everything. And a distinct lack of...normal person stuff. Do you have a social security number?”  
  
“Are you trying to steal my identity?”  
  
“Not if your credit is shitty.”  
  
Emma isn’t sure she’s ever actually used the word guffaw in her life, but she can’t come up with a better description for whatever noise she makes. It’s more than incredulous. It’s complete and utter disbelief and they’ve delved into the deep end of absolute farce. “We’re kind of a self-contained unit in Storybrooke,” she explains. “Not much money. Lots of trading things. Magic for magic, that sort of thing. So, uh...no, I don’t have a social security number. As far as I knew no one outside of Storybrooke knew that Storybrooke existed.”  
  
“But you knew about us?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma nods slowly. “Not specifics. Just that you were...there. I don’t know major dates in American history if that’s what you’re getting at.”  
  
“A little, honestly,” Belle admits, and Emma wishes she’d also jumped onto the counter if only so she has something to keep her from falling on the floor. “Because Killian only kind of did. He...well, he showed up in the library looking for a job. Said he’d been in Boston for awhile, but didn’t really have--”  
  
“--A social security number?” 

“You’re joking, but I’m serious. And it wasn’t...well, we kind of made it work. So that wasn’t a huge thing and he didn’t seem like a murder…”  
  
“He’s not,” Emma says, a certainty she can’t entirely rationalize. Belle nods.  
  
“I don’t think so either. I’ve got no idea what the hell is happening, Emma. Honestly. This is...magic and myth and Ursula is, like, really famous if you know which books to look in.”  
  
“Which you do.”  
  
“Yeah, I do,” Belle nods. “And so does Killian. Always. If it’s something...out of the realm of normal, not straight history, although he’s still got a fairly good grasp on that too...basically what I’m saying is I’ve wondered. For years. It didn’t always add up.”  
  
“So you think that makes him some kind of bloodthirsty pirate who’d fuck over a sea witch?”  
  
Belle’s expression turns almost distraught, teeth digging into her lip. “I think there’s some fact to every myth we know. Every story we’re told as children. They’re not always obvious and sometimes the details get lost in translation and the only truth is a little sliver of something, but it’s there. It stays and stands the test of time.”  
  
“Or realms.”  
  
Belle smiles. “Yeah, exactly that. Did you know in some versions of the Arthurian legend, Arthur is just...he’s a total dick?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, yeah. Totally corrupt, garbage ruler. Lancelot was the good guy.”  
  
“Didn’t Lancelot get with Guinevere?” 

“Yeah, but again, Arthur was kind of a dick and...well, he was messing up Camelot. He was supposed to save it, unite the kingdom and--”  
  
“--Save magic?” Emma suggests, Belle’s eyebrows flying up at the interruption. 

“I don’t think you’re Arthur if that’s what you’re getting at.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No,” she repeats. “And if I’m being perfectly honest, I’m only, like, ninety-two percent positive I’m even on the right track.”  
  
“Less definitive than before.”  
  
“Right? It’s frustrating. The facts are there, Emma. They’re hidden in every story, in lines and words, but they might not always be what we expect. Arthur could have been a dick. Lancelot could have been trying to save everyone. The guy without much of a history who knew exactly what Track 61 was might already be incredibly devoted to the hero.”

Emma’s been holding her breath. She lets it out in a huff, another quick flash of her tongue between her lips and the weight that feels like it’s hanging off her neck doesn’t make sense – it’s not even unpleasant, just a steady _thing_ that she’s only noticed now because there’s not actually anything there and--  
  
“Hey,” Will says, striding into the kitchen as if everything is normal and nudging Emma out of the way familiarly. “Ruby wants to watch more of that next season, babe. So, uh...if you guys are done talking secrets in here…”  
  
Belle scrunches her nose, but she doesn’t argue _secrets_ either. “We can probably wash the dishes after we save the world, huh?”  
  
“That’s the spirit.” 

And the whole thing is only a little overwhelming, but then Ruby curls into the corner of the couch and Belle puts her laptop on the coffee table and Will snores very loudly. Killian’s asleep next to Emma, head resting on her thigh with an ease that shouldn’t be that easy. 

Her fingers card through his hair, toying with strands as she listens to his breathing even out. The movement itself is second nature, like she’s spent hours or days doing just that, and she doesn’t want to move, can’t imagine a situation where she ever _would_ , but the walls also feel like they’re starting to close in and there are so many charts and Emma shouldn’t have eaten that second piece of pizza. 

“Dinner of champions, my ass,” she mumbles, wiggling out from underneath Killian and he barely stirs when she puts another pillow under his head. Belle has so many pillows. Emma’s not sure she owns more than one pillow. 

It’s, like, five years old. At least. And the case doesn’t match the blanket on her bed. 

She pads towards the window on the other side of the room, a vaguely rickety looking fire escape just outside it and there’s something to be said for living on the edge. Quite literally. The frame squeaks when Emma slides it open, careful when she swings her leg over the edge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for clicking and reading. You are all a delight. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	6. Chapter 6

The air is cooler as soon as she sits down, but it’s far from silent. 

Still. This stupid city feels like it’s alive, even at whatever time it might happen to be, and Emma’s eyes aren’t particularly pleased with all the light she suddenly has to contend with. It’s everywhere – in windows on the other side of the block and from lamps that hang over a mostly empty street. It flickers from red to yellow to green, little pinpricks from a phone in someone’s hand just underneath Emma’s right foot. 

It flashes from a plane far above her, people going about their lives without any knowledge of the rest of it, a story Emma isn’t sure she understands anymore, but knows she’s at the very center of. It’s everywhere she looks, bits of white and dots of warmth, energy and electricity and a sign of _home_ in a darkness that feels a little manufactured. 

As if it’s not actually real. 

As if it’s not actually a threat. 

As if she can do something about it. 

Emma takes a deep breath, slow and measured and it’s awful because she’s come to realize that the air in this city doesn’t smell like salt, but like garbage and sweat and far too many people, but she needs something to center herself, particularly when she can feel the rush of _everything_ moving down both her arms. 

She shakes them at her side, flipping both her wrists and the light that appears in either one of her palms isn’t particularly bright. It hums, though, its own pulse that makes Emma laugh softly because it’s not desperate. There’s no spark, no flare, nothing that isn’t the absolute control she knows she needs for this to work. 

“That’s impressive.”

Emma’s teeth find her lip – but it’s not nerves, so much as it is butterflies. She glances over her shoulder to find Killian smiling at her, mussed hair and that same look she’s starting to covet just a bit because she’s starting to realize, just a bit, that he only ever uses it when he’s looking her direction. 

“You were asleep two seconds ago.”  
  
He hums, moving through the window with far more grace than he should be allowed to have. The entire fire escape wobbles precariously when he sits down. “Fuck,” he breathes, working another laugh out of her. “Don’t do that, Swan. This is--God, what would possess you to come out here? This is a death trap.”  
  
“What, are you scared?”  
  
“Of falling to my doom before we can even try to save the world? Yes, obviously.”  
  
“You’re very dramatic, you know that?”  
  
“I think I’m pointing out some precarious parts of your escape plan, that’s all.”

The butterflies disappear. Immediately. Oh. _Oh_. “I’m not running,” Emma whispers, eyes falling to hands that are suddenly absent of any magic. 

“No?”  
  
“No. Just...thinking.”  
  
“Well, I’ll give you a penny for them.”  
  
“I promise, they’re not worth that much.”  
  
“I don’t know about that, love,” Killian says, tugging her hand back to his side and the plastic there is cool under her fingers. It’s been happening more, she’s noticed, the willingness to let her touch his hand and the realization leaves her a little light-headed, like he’s trusting her with this part of him, letting her in and giving her more than a few pillows for her head. 

It’s an admittedly jumbled metaphor. 

“Do you think it’s possible?” Emma asks. “Another realm? People we can’t remember.”  
  
“Pirates and princesses, you mean?” She nods, not sure she what to do with the catch in his voice, but Killian doesn’t object when she lets her head fall on his shoulder and she hadn’t expected him to. “Maybe. I...I don’t know, Swan. I can remember things and I can’t. Moments that make no sense at all, but feel like they have to be true because I don’t know what I’ll do if they’re not.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“How do you know there was a but?”  
  
“How did you know I was out here?”  
  
“Fair,” he chuckles. “But. If it is true, then there has to be some truth to what that sea witch says and I can’t--I don’t want to be that person. No matter how much you might be willing to forgive.”  
  
“Again, she was trying to drown us with a soda gun,” Emma reasons. “Maybe she was just an asshole and a villain. Plus, I don’t...I’m certainly not a princess. That’s…” She’s rambling, it can’t possibly be attractive. Killian’s still smiling. “Well, you remember being in the Navy, right? That could work. Whatever I am and...the naval officer.”  
  
“Doesn’t have quite the same ring as pirate and princess, does it?”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “You’re blowing holes in my theories again.”  
  
“Not on purpose,” he promises. “Why don’t you think the princess thing makes sense?”  
  
“Are you kidding?”  
  
“Humor me.”  
  
Emma groans, but she wants to keep talking and sitting here and she knows something is happening. Something big. “I don’t know how I got to Storybrooke. I’ve been trying to remember and I...I can’t, but now I keep having these moments and it’s not--it feels real. You knew exactly how to get me to calm down when my magic freaked and you can feel my magic and--"  
  
The words don’t come, just a weird, half-noise of disappointment and _being alone_ and he’s going to set a record for emotionally-charged hand kisses in a twenty-four hour period. 

“The princess and the naval officer,” Killian murmurs, keeping his head ducked and his lips against Emma’s skin. “You think we went to many balls?”  
  
“Are you trying to get me to invite you to balls, Lieutenant?” 

She blushes. It’s ridiculous. And Emma can feel the smile become a smirk, a quick twist of lips and another nip against her knuckles, but she’s barely got time to process that before they’re moving and the fire escape is creaking again and Killian’s hand falls on her waist with practiced ease. 

“I believe, your highness, I’m asking you to dance.”  
  
“What?” Emma asks, and she can’t believe her voice actually has the gall to crack. 

“Was that confusing?”  
  
“You were worried about the fire escape leading to a very bloody, very violent demise two seconds ago. Now you want to dance?”  
  
“I never used the word bloody.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“C’mon,” he goads, and they’re already swaying slightly. There’s no music, no rhythm except the one the city exudes and Emma’s never had a moment like this. 

At least not in this realm. 

Time seems to pause, lets them stay right where they are, close enough that their toes brush and their thighs press together and Emma doesn’t argue when Killian moves her hand to his shoulder. “You have to work on your form, Swan,” he murmurs, pressing the words to the side of her cheek. “Luckily for you, I’m more than adept.”

“Awfully confident too.”  
  
He hums, fingers still curled around hers and there’s a warmth there that doesn’t feel exactly natural. In a good way. The best way. A possibly magical sort of way. Killian’s hand drifts over her side, the fabric of Emma’s shirt twisting under his touch and neither one of them acknowledge how loud her quick inhale is. 

That’s probably for the best. 

“It’s a crime you don’t know how to do this,” he murmurs, swaying turning to rocking. 

“Disappointed?”  
  
“Not in you. In whatever royal court you grew up in.”

Emma laughs – mostly because the idea of her and royal in the same sentence is so absolutely, positively absurd she can’t even begin to consider another reaction, but then she tilts her head up and she’s almost positive the lights are reflecting off the actual emotion hanging in the air and...well, maybe. 

They’re still moving, slow steps that don’t shake, but move with practiced ease. Killian’s hand shifts every so often, drifting up and down her side and tracing along the ridge of her spine and Emma isn’t sure if he realizes he’s doing it, but it might be even better if that’s true. As if he’s simply trying to make sure that she’s there. 

“Is there a pattern we’re following here, Lieutenant?” 

Killian’s lips twitch, a flash in his gaze that makes Emma’s eyes widen. Her gaze flickers up, tracing across his face like she’s looking for clues to a mystery she didn’t initially realize she was determined to solve. “It’s called a waltz,” he says, a soft lilt in his voice that she’s starting to notice more and more. 

Usually when he’s teasing her. 

He seems to like doing that. 

She doesn’t mind all that much either. 

And maybe is starting to feel more and more like probably. Or even hopefully. 

“Right, right, right,” Emma mutters. There’s a siren somewhere. She can hear people talking on the sidewalk below them, that same _hum_ of city-life and actual living making its way back to her ears and her soul and her magic jumps, twisting through the spaces between her ribs and wrapping around the joints in her elbows and her knees and Killian’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. 

“And where, exactly, did you get such impeccable lessons?”  
  
“The Navy, obviously,” he answers, not quite smug, but still decidedly teasing. Emma rolls her eyes. His eyebrows are absurd. “Can’t have her highness embarrassed by her men, you see.”

“Are you suggesting I have more than one man? Impertinent.”

He might wink – at least tries, it’s more just a scrunch of his nose and an exaggerated blink, but it’s also kind of endearing in a way that makes Emma certain Ursula must have been lying through her teeth. “I hope not,” Killian says, no trace of anything except honesty in every single letter. 

Emma’s been holding her breath. She hadn’t realized. 

“No, there wasn’t,” Emma mutters. Past tense. She doesn’t realize that immediately either. And it’s idiotic to push, absurd to move out of this moment or the easy motion she and Killian have settled into, but she’s curious and worried and she wants. That’s all there is to it. “What did you see before?” she asks. “When the seeress was here and--”  
  
“--You called me babe.”  
  
“I’m serious.”

Killian’s laugh seems to fall off him, a quick nod and slight squeeze of his hand. “It was awful,” he says. “It was...like being torn and twisted and it felt like it was never going to stop. I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t hear anything. It was just dark. And everything hurt.”  
  
“I’m so sorry.”  
  
“That’s not your fault, Swan.”  
  
“I don’t--”  
  
“--It’s not,” Killian cuts in sharply, and Emma nearly swallows her tongue. Her tongue is really becoming a problem for her. “None of this is your fault. And you’re going to fix it, save everyone and then some.”  
  
“I don’t know if there’s a _some_ after everyone.”  
  
He grins – and it almost reaches his eyes, not quite perfectly blue anymore. It’s probably a trick of the light. “Touché.”

They’re not moving. They’re frozen on that rickety fire escape with hints of a past that might actually be a dream and villains and magic. Too much magic. Emma feels as if she’s going to burst with the force of it. 

“What’s your favorite place here?”

Killian’s eyebrows furrow, confusion obvious in that pinch between his eyebrows. The gust of wind that moves down the block is sudden, making Emma’s knees wobble slightly and she refuses to give credence to the soft suspicion in the back of her mind – it doesn’t feel particularly natural. 

“What?”  
  
“Here,” Emma repeats, jerking her head back like that will make it more obvious. “This city. You said--well, you aren’t from here, right?”  
  
His eyebrows, somehow, get even lower, a move that makes his actual eyes turn into slits and Emma does her best not to focus on whatever is happening the general region of her lungs. The wind hasn’t stopped, might be gusting even more, honestly, a sudden heaviness to the air that is even less natural. 

She’s almost gotten used to the smell of this city, and it’s been warm recently, the last few hints of summer hanging on before the leaves start to change, which very likely only adds to the overall scent of most of Manhattan, but this, _this_ , whatever smell she’s breathing in now, it’s not right. 

It’s rotten. It’s decay. And disappointment. It’s loneliness. She wasn’t aware loneliness had a specific scent until that very moment, but Emma knows she’s right. She’d remember that particular emotion anywhere – is far too well acquainted with it herself, but she’s not entirely sure where it’s coming from. She can feel it though, with every breath she takes, quick inhales and slightly desperate exhales, an emptiness that fills her and makes her magic rise up in defense. The shadows at her feet extend. 

Killian blinks, a quick shake of his head and slight grimace that he probably doesn’t want Emma to see. “No, I’m not,” he says, voice clipped.  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what? I told you already, Swan. I was everywhere. After my brother died, I--” He huffs, all frustration and...loneliness. Again. 

The shadows look like they’re wrapping around Killian’s legs. 

“Are you planning on taking in the sights and sounds of New York after saving the world, then?” Killian asks, and Emma isn’t entirely prepared for the whiplash in his tone. It’s not the harsh sound it had been a few seconds before. It’s softer, enthusiastic even, like a kid who would go outside in the snow even when he knew it would end with freezing fingers and toes. If only so he could have a few moments of fun. 

Of something that was his. 

Or, maybe, theirs. 

Emma is clearly a sentimental weirdo when presented with the challenge of saving the world. 

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, which is only kind of cowardly, but the conversation suddenly seems even _more_ than it was and they were dancing a few minutes ago. Dancing. She can’t remember the last time she danced. She can’t remember the last time she wanted to. 

“But you’re curious.”  
  
“About several thousand things,” Emma grumbles. “Right now, though I’m just--I don’t know, wondering, I guess. About you and--”  
  
“--You?”  
  
“It’s confusing when you use the same word in the sentence like that.”  
  
“Fair, fair. My use of the word you was really more directed at...well, you.” He clicks his teeth when she groans, a distinct lack of frustration in the sound because the sound might actually be flirting and they should never have stopped dancing. “I guess what I’m saying is that I understand it. Wanting to know.”  
  
“You don’t think that’s weird?”  
  
Killian makes a noise in the back of his throat, not quite an agreement, but certainly not a disagreement. It’s an oddly satisfying middle point. “I think it could be, but I’m almost confident it won’t be.”  
  
“Confusing.”  
  
“Nah,” he objects. “For one thing I’m pretty sure you’re brilliant and--”  
  
“--Oh flattery is a very good look on you, Lieutenant.” His ears go red and his lips press together and Emma wouldn’t say she _preens_ exactly, but it is very, very close. 

“It’s not flattery when it’s true, Swan.” If she gets any closer to him she’s going to step on his shoes. And, not for the first time, Emma wishes there weren’t three other people in that apartment or that pesky _fate of the world and magic_ thing hanging over their head, because she’s admittedly very curious and has more than a few thoughts regarding a lack of shirts. “And,” Killian adds, pulling her back to the present and decidedly clothed bodies, “it’s not weird because we’re on the same page.”  
  
He ducks his eyes, tongue flashing between his lips. That doesn’t help Emma’s mindset. She wonders if it’d freak him out of if she just magic'ed them out of their clothes. 

Probably. 

“I want to know about you,” she whispers, not quite an admission because she’d almost said exactly that before, but using the very specific words seems important and possibly life-changing and maybe that line never actually existed at all. 

Maybe they’d just been on this page from the start. 

Together. 

“Where?”  
  
“This is what I was asking you. Favorite places, an itemized list.”  
  
Killian chuckles, head dropping forward a few inches until the few strands of hair that seem determined to ruin Emma’s entire life brush against her skin. He’s never actually moved his hand away from her back. 

She’d barely noticed – as if that’s exactly where it belonged. 

_God_. 

“You did mention something about Times Square, didn’t you?” Killian mutters, expression twisting into something that looks like vaguely put-upon attraction. It’s a weird string of words. Emma hopes she sees it, at least, forty-seven more times. 

“And you were very quick to point out that going to Times Square would be the worst possible thing I could do.”  
  
“Yeah, well that was admittedly before everything went to complete shit and we were trying to figure out if our lives were lies.”  
  
“Ah, that was very negative. Almost scathing.”  
  
He sighs again, a quick kiss to the crown of her head. Her magic needs to calm the fuck down. “Yeah,” Killian agrees, “it was. It’d be easier if it was all balls and bowing and courting, huh?”  
  
“You seem to be far more well versed in court etiquette than I am.”  
  
“Rebel princess.”  
  
“I’m not sure if that was a compliment or not, actually,” Emma says, hooking her finger through one of the belt loops on Killian’s jeans. She nearly strains the muscles in her face smiling at whatever noise _that_ inspires. “Although that might get me on the right track”  
  
Another kiss. She’s not counting. She’s harping, a little, but definitely not counting. There’s got to be a line somewhere. 

Emma’s not sure if the line is actually in this realm or not. 

“I’m sorry for the negative, love,” Killian says, dropping his head to drag the words along the side of her jaw and Emma flinches on instinct as soon as his lips ghost over that one, specific spot behind her ear. 

He laughs. 

And pulls her even closer to his chest so she can’t swat at his arm. 

“It really isn’t your fault, Swan,” Killian continues, and Emma knows they’re rehashing and talking in circles and there’s probably a dance metaphor in there, but her mind reaches out towards the words and her magic might actually need the words and the way his voice shifts slightly when he looks at her like _that_ makes her positive not much else matters. 

“Favorite place.”  
  
He grins. “Times Square.”  
  
“Don’t lie to me.”  
  
“I’m not. And, you know, you kind of almost got there already. The library really isn’t that far out of Times Square. It’s like...maybe, two blocks.”  
  
“Ok, that was just pitiful,” Emma says, but the insult lacks much insult when she laughs the words out. Killian’s eyebrows lift. “C’mon...I’m serious. This is a legitimate attempt at--”  
  
“--Distraction? Deflection?”  
  
“Those are both incredibly negative as well.”

“Doesn’t change my answer. Times Square. It’s the best place in all five boroughs, hands down, no other choice.”  
  
“Oh my God, that was horrendous!”  
  
He widens his eyes when her voice rises, gaze darting back to the still-dark apartment and far-too-loud sound of Will’s consistent snoring. “Swan, if you keep shouting at me, I’m going to start thinking you don’t believe me.”

“Oh, I can’t imagine what would give you that idea. Aren’t officers supposed to be honor-bound to their monarchs or whatever?”  
  
“The whatever really added to it,” Killian laughs, hand moving again and Emma shivers when the wind gusts against her skin. “And depending on which story you listen to I’m a variety of different things. I can’t imagine pirates have much honor to them.”  
  
“No honor among thieves, huh?”  
  
“Something that like.” His gaze goes distant for a moment, flitting over Emma’s shoulder like he’s looking at something she can’t see or remembering something she doesn’t entirely understand and--"Although pirates are usually pretty dashing, right? Rapscallions and all that.”  
  
“Good word.”  
  
“That’s the librarian version of me.”

“I like that one,” Emma says before she can think better of it and she doesn’t really regret the words. Particularly when they lead to _that_ look – as if she’s the sun or the moon or possibly several different stars of the northern variety, something that would, at the very least, lead any manner of sailor home. 

Back to her. 

_Every single time_. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” she repeats. “And I think it’s stupid nice that you’re picking Times Square to try and make me feel less like a tourist for picking Times Square.”

“Stupid nice is also a rather impressive string of words.”

Emma scoffs, Killian’s smile settling into something that also feels a bit like home and several facts about space that she’d need a small army of librarians to research. “That was definitely the goal.” She takes a deep breath, reluctantly pulling her hand away and flipping her palm up.

Killian tilts his head. “You don’t want to walk, huh?”  
  
“What’s the fun in that?”  
  
“Yeah, an absolute joy.” She flutters her fingers. And Killian doesn’t sigh, but he makes _that_ face again and Emma smiles as soon as his hand lands on top of hers. “For what it’s worth, I never really thought you were a tourist.”  
  
“What a compliment.”  
  
“A natural New Yorker.”  
  
“Oh even better,” Emma laughs, lacing her fingers through Killian’s and his thumb finds the back of her wrist almost immediately. “Don’t let go, ok?”  
  
The rushing in her ears makes it difficult to hear whatever he says, but Emma would swear he mutters _never_ and the surge of her magic is as strong as it’s ever been. 

They land with a soft thump, sneakers dragging across not-quite empty sidewalks because it’s late, but New York is, well, New York and she’s come to learn that there are always people everywhere. A man in a fur-suit and costumed head balanced against his hip gapes at them. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes, and Killian’s head falls to Emma’s shoulder when he starts laughing. Emma’s eyes bug, yanking her lips behind her teeth. And it only takes a few moments of prolonged staring and increasingly loud laughter before the guy in the fur-suit starts glaring at them, taking a step forward that’s obviously some kind of challenge. 

Killian moves in front of Emma. 

“Oh my God,” she mumbles, knowing it won’t do much because Killian’s fingers are shifting at his side and the fur-suit guy is already talking about how _this is my corner_ and that apparently means something in Times Square. 

“No one is trying to take your corner,” Killian seethes. “Back up.”

“I’ve been here for years--”  
  
“--I do not care.”  
  
“Killian,” Emma sighs, tugging on the side of his shirt, but that doesn’t do much to help and it really is off-putting that this guy won’t put his costumed head back on. 

“The magic shows are down by Herald Square anyway,” the guy continues, “or in the Village. We’ve got rules here man, you can’t just show up and--”

He snaps his jaw shut whenever he sees whatever expression Emma assumes has appeared on Killian’s face, and she can’t mask her sigh again. So she does what she does best. She breaks the rules and ignores the protocol of Times Square street performers, twisting her wrist and feeling the push of warmth that rushes down her right arm and the man freezes. 

Immediately. 

With his goddamn head in his hand. 

Killian spins on the spot, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Emma scrunches her nose. “He won’t stay like that forever,” she reasons. “Just...you know, maybe forty-five minutes. Like an hour, tops.”

“Did I mention the brilliant part before?  
  
“Yeah, I think I heard that somewhere.”

“Good,” he says, moving back into her space and it’s a little weird to kiss in front of a frozen guy because the head thing really is weird, but Emma is also pretty interested in kissing and she pushes up on her toes before she thinks about it for too long. 

They’re both more than content to stay right there for a moment, rocking back and forth without much concern for the footsteps that move around them and the soft murmurs about their potentially inappropriate public displays of affection, but Emma’s mind can’t slow down, despite her best efforts, and the smell is even worse wherever they are.  
  
“Uh, actually 42nd,” Killian says, answering a question she hadn’t even begun to formulate yet. “That’s also impressive because, I think, technically, Times Square stops after 47th Street, so you literally brought us right to the beginning.”  
  
“Do you think you’re getting some kind of bonus points for the mind reading thing?”  
  
He shakes his head. “Nah, but it’s almost a personal challenge now. Was I right?”  
  
“It’s weird.”  
  
“Not an answer.”  
  
“Why do you not actually like Times Square?”  
  
“Are you looking at it?”  
  
Emma scowls, but she supposes he’s got a point and it all feels decidedly manufactured. She’s got no idea whatsoever what time it is, but she wouldn’t argue if someone told her it was the middle of the afternoon. The lights around her are that bright. And there are so many of them, varying sizes and colors and flashing patterns. 

It’s a lot to take in. 

There are a few more costumed street performers shuffling around them, approaching people who are probably, actual, tourists, more than a dozen police officers Emma notices on just her first glance around and the trash can at the corner of the sidewalk does not appear to have been emptied in a hundred years. 

At least. 

It’s kind of disappointing. It’s been a very strange night. 

“I’m sorry,” Killian whispers. Emma hears him. Over the din and the cars and there are so many cars and she can’t understand why anyone in their right mind would ever want to drive through this place that is shockingly similar to the picture of the Underworld she’s devised in her mind. 

“For?”  
  
“Throw a dart, honestly,” Killian mutters, hand reaching back to tug on the few strands of hair that curl behind his ears. “Everything. You having to be here, getting tugged here because some weird, creepy lady declared your magic was looking for me. That none of it makes sense. That I--” He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and Emma seriously needs to stop worrying so much about the seemingly never-ending issues she’s having with her tongue. 

It feels too big for her mouth. 

Killian’s eyes open. “I’m sorry it’s not what you were hoping for, Swan.”

It keeps happening. 

These words that aren’t just words, but might be promises and guarantees and this isn’t quite either one of those things. It feels like more. It feels like an explanation and a reason and she hadn’t been hoping for any of this. 

She’d been hoping for the exact, opposite, actually. 

And her magic brought her here anyway. To him. And the, technical, start of Times Square. 

She reaches up, tugging his hand away from his hair and it’d probably be weird to brush her lips over the back of his palm, but she kind of wants to and he beats her to it. Figures. His mouth is soft against her skin, slow and measured movements that feel like another dance and even more rhythm, a return to something forgotten and absolutely necessary. 

She seriously needs to get a goddamn grip. 

“Where would you go?” Emma asks, gritting her teeth when someone honks a car horn behind her. “Anywhere.”  
  
“I think we’re a little bound by the city, love.”  
  
“You’re being difficult on purpose.”  
  
“Yeah, that might be true.”  
  
“So pick. C’mon, babe.”  
  
She does it on purpose. She knows it. Killian knows it. The costumed guy knows it and he’s frozen for, at least, the next forty-three minutes. 

“Alright,” Killian nods, the grip on her hand tightening just a bit. “Let’s take a walk.”

Emma has no idea where they’re going. It’s nice. In a way that letting go of the fear and the anxiety that’s crept up her spine and lingered at the base of her skull for the last few weeks is nice. So, naturally, she doesn’t do exactly that. She lets herself stop worrying for a moment, but she holds onto Killian’s hand, twisting and turning across city blocks that all start to blur together a bit and the lights get a little dimmer and the noise gets a little softer and, eventually, she stops smelling that smell. 

She smells salt. 

“The water,” she mutters, an obvious string of words that probably shouldn’t sound quite as surprised as they are.  
  
Killian hums, rocking back on his heels and taking a deep breath. They’re still on the wrong side of the street, an avenue that looks almost impossible to cross, with far too many cars for whatever time it actually is, but Emma’s never been happier to be proved wrong. 

He grins at her, even before the light changes, mumbling something that sounds a hell of a lot like _just follow me_ and she’s got no reason to argue that. They twist and turn, another string of impossible movements that aren’t magic, but feel a little bit like an even more powerful teleport and Emma laughs as soon as the railing in front of her collides with her stomach. 

Killian’s a little out of breath, his own smile making it seem like his eyes are the lights now and maybe she should just ask Regina if there’s some kind of spell to, like, sedate her and her sentimentality or something. 

“When I first got to New York,” Killian starts, and Emma stops laughing almost immediately, “I didn’t have two cents to my name. I don’t--I haven’t really thought about it in a long time because it’s all kind of a blur, but I knew Liam was gone and I was so...angry. At everything and everyone and the whole goddamn world.”  
  
“That’s not unreasonable.”

“You’ve been incredibly understanding about this several times now, Swan, but it doesn’t change the fact that I was kind of an ass about it.”  
  
“But you came here?”  
  
He hums, soft in the back of his throat. Emma takes a step to her right, fingers curling around the bit of plastic at the end of his arm and she feels him flinch before she hears his breath catch. “Aye,” Killian breathes, another repeat that makes every bit of magic Emma’s rise up and jump and maybe do a few cartwheels just for good measure. “It was--I joined the Navy because I wanted to do something good. Wanted to...defend is an awfully hokey word isn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma nods. “But it’s kind of nice.”  
  
“Ah, well that’s the line I’m trying to walk, for sure.”

She might giggle. There is, at the very least, a small army of butterflies in her stomach. “What’s the earliest thing you remember?”  
  
“In my life?”  
  
“Is that--”

“--Emma, I’m not sure there’s a question you could ask me that would be overstepping at this point. I...I want to know too.”

And it’s not exactly _everything_ , still not a promise or a guarantee or a very specific string of words Emma absolutely, positively should not be thinking because it’s been a few weeks and fate is...stupid and impossible and she can’t shake that feeling in the back of her mind. She wishes Times Square hadn’t been so lame. 

She takes a deep breath instead. 

“So why’d you come here, then?” 

Killian grits his teeth. “I don’t remember a ton,” he says. “Before Boston or even really in the Navy. Just...that I was there. It’s like, uh, looking at something through glass, you know? It all gets warped and changed and none of it makes much sense, but there’s bits and pieces.”  
  
“The space heater thing?”  
  
“Exactly. And this. The water. There’s just...it’s kind of like this tug, almost. That if I came back here and watched the waves and the surf, everything else would settle. I’d settle.”  
  
“I don’t understand that last part.”  
  
He makes another noise and Emma knows exactly what word goes with it, but she doesn’t want to use it because it makes the butterflies stop fluttering and the bile rise in the back of her throat and her magic doesn’t just surge. It roars. In something almost akin to rage. 

And determination. 

As if it’s desperate to protect, to wrap itself around him and utter those promises and how much she wants and hopes and Killian’s eyes widen to a size that cannot good for him because he can feel all of that. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “I...for as long as I can remember, Swan. It’s always been this--” He can’t seem to hold her gaze, eyes darting anywhere that isn’t her as if he’s terrified of the reception he’ll get. And Emma ignores the growing ache in her legs from the walking and the dancing and the fighting off the butterfly army, crowding against him and resting her palm on his cheek. He kisses exactly where his lips land. 

“Out of place, right?” she asks. His eyes get even wider. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I...get that, a lot, actually.”  
  
“I used to come here every night. It’d get dark and I’d been in that library all day and it always felt like I was looking for something I forgot to write down. I’d stack books and put things away and it was as if the one, last thing I was searching for was just out of reach. Like smoke or something.”  
  
“Good metaphor.”  
  
Killian chuckles, the crack of a smile on his face making the butterflies shift again. “Flattery, love,” he mutters. “So I would come here. And I’d stand and watch. It was a wonder I didn’t get arrested for loitering.”  
  
“This is probably public property, they can’t do that. That’s just basic law.”  
  
“Ah, well, good thing you’re here to tell me that now.” Emma rolls her eyes. If only because she’s so impossibly endeared she doesn’t know what else to do. “I was never really worried about that though,” Killian adds. “Mostly because I didn’t care. I was...not empty. What’s the opposite?”  
  
“Full.”  
  
“Nah, that’s not it either. I was overflowing with everything I was feeling because I wasn’t sure what it was. Too much, honestly. And none of it made sense. Like I said, flashes and memories and little moments that didn’t add up to anything. They said there might have been some symptoms of that after--”  
  
“--After,” Emma cuts in sharply. “Oh, shit did you--” The realization shakes through her, rattling down her vertebrae and it’s heavy enough that she falls back on her heels. “When Liam…”  
  
“Died? You can say it, love.”  
  
She rolls her eyes again, frustration she’s not even remotely entitled to. “Were you hurt too?”  
  
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?” Killian shrugs. “I woke up in Boston with wisps of memories and hints of a past that, now, makes even less sense, but there were doctors there and I’ve got--” He holds up his hand, like that proves anything and Emma doesn’t think. 

God, she’s got to stop doing that.

She jerks both her hands forward, fingers wrapping around plastic and a limb that doesn’t allow much movement and Killian is not breathing. She knows he’s not. He’s staring at her in disbelief and something very close to wonder and they both ignore how choppy the water on the other side of the railing is. 

His eyes are definitely bluer than they were before.  
  
Emma licks her lips, not entirely sure what her plan is or if she even has one, but her magic refuses to settle and she refuses to let Killian think any less than exactly what he is and--”It doesn’t make a difference,” she says, hoping he hears the words for what they are and what she’s not actually saying. He clenches his jaw. “No matter what,” Emma continues, “I...what’s the first thing you remember?”  
  
“The water.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The water,” Killian repeats. “That’s why I would come here. Because that was always what I thought about and it...was calming. Not just the water, either. The smell. Salt in the air and it was warm. I remember that perfectly. The back of my neck burned, but I never went inside.”  
  
“Seems to be a theme, huh?”  
  
He nods, ducking to catch her in a quick kiss. “There was water and a dock. And...the sun, light reflecting off the waves and--” Emma’s heart is going to explode out of her chest. “It wasn’t just the sun,” Killian mutters, sounding confused and a little scared and the clouds above them must have shifted because Emma swears his face moves into the shadow as soon as he tilts his head. “That’s insane, right?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“I hate to tell you this, Swan, but that’s not the most inspired answer.” She lets out a shaky laugh, even less confidence than usual. “Tell me something about Storybrooke, then. Something good. Something...magical.”  
  
“Is this flirting?”  
  
“It’s unfortunate that you have to ask.”  
  
Her eyes are going to get stuck mid-roll, but her mind is firing again and the memory can’t possibly be the same. 

It’s insane. 

It’s not. 

She really hopes her heart doesn’t explode out of her chest. Emma isn’t sure there’s a spell to fix exploding hearts. 

“I could probably eat, like, five grilled cheese sandwiches in one sitting. Granny makes them at the diner in town and it’s...my love of them is almost legendary. Ruby would bring me some when I’d get stuck with paperwork because David and Mary Margaret were off being somewhere disgustingly in love and--”

“--Is five your record?”  
  
“I don’t know that I’ve ever counted, but you know...they’re not super big sandwiches, so I’m going to say five is definitely a possibility.”  
  
Killian doesn’t laugh. That’s the good part. The less good part is whatever he does with his face, slightly stunned and a little overwhelmed and Emma is wholly unprepared for the movement, a shift and another shadow and her gasp is probably helpful. It makes it easier for his tongue move into her mouth. 

She arches her back, trying to push herself further against him, which is either the best or worst decision she’s ever made, but they really can’t get arrested for loitering and she’s doubtful about New York’s public decency laws and she wants, wants, _wants_. 

“God, I can’t think when you do that,” she says.

“Swan, the complaints, love.”  
  
“Was I complaining?”  
  
“Certainly sounded like it.”

Emma hums, pushing back up and the hand on her back feels like a weight and an anchor and, possibly, the only thing tethering her to reality.

And in the rest of her life that will follow, hours and days and years, Emma will never know what possesses her to say the next few words out her mouth. It’s as if she’s been switched on or something else has been switched off, a certainty that this is her best option and only option and it makes perfect sense.

“What if we left?” she asks. “Now. Right now?”  
  
“I thought you weren’t running.”  
  
“Only towards danger.”

“Oh, that was good, Swan,” Killian says. “You want to go find Excalibur at two in the morning? On our own?”

“How did you know that?”  
  
“You do this thing with your face when you’ve started to formulate a plan. It’s wonderful.” Emma does, in fact, make a face at that. Which only serves to, finally, make Killian laugh. “See,” he grins. “You’re doing it now. You twist your lips so it’s like...one side gets tugged down and your nose just defies the laws of physics.”  
  
“These are not compliments.”  
  
“They are, love, I promise.”

She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t particularly want to. She wants to go find Excalibur at two in the morning, fueled, almost solely, on the idea that Killian remembers a memory that can’t possibly exist.  
  
“Would you go?” Emma asks. “With me...I mean.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
It’s more conviction and certainty and probably some other word that starts with ‘c’ and maybe a few other words that are far too big to be considering yet, but Emma mutters _ok_ under her breath and pushes up on her toes to kiss him and the magic wraps around both of them almost immediately. 

They land outside of Grand Central Station and they’re definitely getting better at not stumbling. Emma waves her hand at the lock in front of her, the soft sound of it snapping open satisfying and, she hopes, some kind of sign for their future success. 

“Do you not ever have to say the words out loud?” Killian asks, following her into the main hall and it’s weird. The pictures they’d found online were all of a bustling transportation hub, people everywhere with briefcases and less-than-impressed expressions, trying to catch trains and there’s probably another metaphor in there somewhere. 

Something about time and how it keeps passing them by or whatever. 

Emma shakes her head. “Regina would kill me if she knew I wasn’t. Supposedly it helps with control to kind of...focus the magic into the words and the spell, but control’s never really been my thing and it’s just--”  
  
“--It’s just?”  
  
“It’s easier to do it when you’re around,” Emma says, rushing over the words like they’re embarrassing. Killian beams. “Oh, don’t look so smug.”  
  
“I’m not anything, Swan. I’m processing. Appreciating new information, as it were.”  
  
“Smug.”  
  
She’s going to magic his eyebrows to one, specific spot on his face. Killian laughs again, another press of his lips to her cheek. “C’mon,” he says, “Belle said the building prints had some kind of secret entrance down in the corner by the food court.”  
  
It’s even creepier down there – which is really saying something because Emma’s skin had exploded with goosebumps when they walked by that giant clock and the whole thing felt a little heavy-handed – but now they’re in some kind of basement that isn’t a basement and nothing is open and it all looks a little grey. 

The chairs squeak when they move around them, trying to find a secret hatch or a hidden door knob and--”Here,” Emma says, a pull low in her stomach and she can’t ignore that kind of magic. It’s obvious. And completely foreign. “That’s...that’s weird.”  
  
“Yeah, it is.”  
  
She blinks. “Wait, what? You can feel that too?”  
  
Killian nods, eyes going distant again and Emma’s only a little worried she’s lost complete control of the situation already. “Yeah,” he mumbles, recoiling from the wall like it’s shocked him. “It’s like--”  
  
“--Music?”  
  
“That’s what it sounds like.”

Emma leans forward, like that will help her hear better. She’s pleasantly surprised when it works. Because the music grows and the sound isn’t altogether unpleasant and Killian curses under his breath as soon as the doorknob they were looking for appears. 

“God, that’s so weird,” Emma muses. She reaches forward anyway, a quick turn and another loud click of a different lock and there’s a hallway in front of them, low lights and not much suggesting that it’s an obvious threat, but Emma can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t quite right. 

“Huh.”  
  
“Articulate.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m not sure I can come up with anything else,” Killian says. He takes a deep breath, straightening his shoulders and ignoring whatever objection Emma only half gets out before he takes a step around her and crosses the threshold into the catacomb that’s just magically opened up. He holds his hand out. “You ready?”  
  
“Loaded question.”  
  
“Yup.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma says, not sure if she’s answering or agreeing and it’s probably both. “Let’s go.”

It’s very dusty. That’s the first thing she notices. And filled with cobwebs. There are no windows, _they’re underground_ , just heavy air and a small cloud of dirt every time Emma and Killian’s feet move another step forward. 

On Track 61. 

Killian lets out a low whistle, more than one kiss pressed to the top of Emma’s hair. “It does seem rather vast, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Never-ending, even. Have you seen anything that even looks like anything?”

The words are no sooner out of her mouth than they turn another corner, Emma’s fingers still tied up with Killian’s and a ball of light in her other hand, and they both mumble several rather pointed curses. 

There’s stuff everywhere. And stuff is about the best way to describe it. There’s no rhyme or reason to it – small piles of what, at first glance, appear to be various flatware sets, with far too many forks for one person, and more than a few paintings, empty candelabras and--”Is that a bust? Like...of person?”

Killian hums, moving towards it and Emma doesn’t have much choice to follow. He clicks his tongue, a quiet appraisal. “I think that’s Hans Christian Andersen.”  
  
“How would you know that?”  
  
“I know everything.”  
  
“You’re not nearly as charming as you think you are.”

He glances over his shoulder, a flash of a smirk when his lips move. “I think that’s a defense mechanism because you’re actually so charmed by me.”  
  
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” she argues, another lie that’s almost painfully bad. “I don’t...this is just junk, though.”  
  
“You think it’s more than one person’s stuff?”  
  
“Don’t you?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Killian shrugs. “Maybe.”  
  
“And no sword.”

She’s not really expecting more flirting, so she can’t say she’s disappointed when she doesn’t get it, but Emma is admittedly a little surprised that she doesn’t even get a response. It is, she quickly realizes, because Killian’s gaze has moved over her head, staring at a high archway with his lips parted slightly. 

“Babe,” Emma mutters, falling back on recently-acquired habits and the hope that it will work. It does not. Damn. “Killian.”  
  
His brows furrow, blinking quickly and she’s not sure what to do with the look on his face – a mix of curiosity and fear that doesn’t add up at all. “Killian,” Emma repeats. “What’s...what are you looking at?”  
  
“I think we have to go that way.”  
  
“What? Why?”  
  
“I don’t--I just know.”  
  
Emma can’t argue with that. She won’t. “Ok,” she says slowly, moving her arm so she can lace her fingers through his and neither one of them stumble when they walk forward. 

She’s got no idea how long it takes, a seemingly never-ending tunnel illuminated only by the light in her free hand. Everything looks stale, as if it’s overstayed its welcome or gone bad and that’s a slightly menacing thought, but Emma’s also seem more cobwebs in the last ten minutes than she knew could ever exist and Killian keeps brushing them away so she doesn’t walk through them. 

“An officer and a gentleman,” she says, a fairly pitiful attempt to joke and this tunnel has to end eventually. “Hey, uh...you want to get dinner sometime or something?”  
  
Killian’s face turns incredulous. “You’re asking me out? Right now?”  
  
“I mean, you know after we deal with Excalibur and maybe aren’t buried alive--”  
  
“--We’re not buried alive, Swan. We can very easily get back into Grand Central.”  
  
“Is this you avoiding the question?”  
  
“No,” Killian says, far too quickly and the tips of his ears go red. Emma widens her eyes. “I’d like that. The dinner. And the getting out of here.”  
  
“Tough to breathe, right?” He hums noncommittally, another far away gaze that Emma follows. She gasps. She’s got to stop doing that. But she can see what he’s looking at and what he’s looking at is a goddamn sword in a goddamn stone like they’ve suddenly been transported into a Disney movie. 

“So, seems fairly real, huh?” Killian asks lightly. 

“Yeah. Very real. What do you think we do?”  
  
“Well, according to the legend only the rightful heir to Camelot could pull the sword from the stone, but I’m not sure we’re playing with the usual rules here.” He takes a step forward, grunting when Emma doesn’t follow immediately. “What?”

“What the hell are you doing? You can’t just touch that thing?”  
  
“Why not? I’m not going to let you do it.”  
  
“I have magic,” Emma yells. “You can feel it! I’m supposed to be the one to save everything.”

Killian’s smile turns a little placating and Emma gets it – she’s kind of whining, but her magic also feels like it’s boiling under her skin and something is _wrong_ here. They shouldn’t be here. “I think it’s got to be me, Emma,” Killian says, and she knows that’s right too. She hates that. She wishes she understood why. “I can...I knew it was here.”

“Ok.”  
  
He kisses her before she moves and she doesn’t want to think it’s the _last one_ , but it feels a hell of a lot like that and everything that happens after that happens far too quickly and far too slowly and the ground shakes under her feet. 

Killian’s hand lands on the sword, a jolt moving through his entire body that doesn’t look natural, but does look a little magical and the shadows that had lingered on the walls around them drift towards his feet. They creep up his legs and wrap around his shoulders, head falling forward when it all gets too much. 

Emma can’t move. She’s frozen to the spot, Killian’s face twisted when he hisses in a breath of air that makes her own breath catch. Loudly. 

His knees never actually buckle and that may almost be worse, as if his legs are locked into place by the darkness that clings to him. His tongue flashes between his lips more than once, eyes screwed shut and his knuckles have turned white where they’re holding the sword. 

And then it’s over. 

Fast and slow, good and bad, light and dark. All at the same time. 

Killian’s head snaps up, eyes wide with disbelief. There’s sweat on his forehead, hair matted to his skin and Emma’s lungs are burning. She still hasn’t moved. It doesn’t matter. He does. 

He moves back into her space in three steps, a hand cupping her cheek with a tenderness that contradicts that the pitch-like color of his gaze. “Emma,” he whispers, and it sounds like a plea. “Emma?”

She shakes her head slowly and in the grand scheme of flight or fight situations, Emma’s a little disappointed when she doesn’t react at all. Her magic, however, is a different story and Killian’s smile is wide, if not a little jarring, the curl of it turning a bit predatory when his gaze meets hers.

“You’ve got to remember, Emma. I need you to remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Us. Please, love. I...I need you to trust me.”  
  
“I do,” Emma says immediately, and she means it. Completely. “Of course, I do.”  
  
Killian mumbles something she can’t understand, ducking down so he’s almost even with Emma and the magic that sparks around them isn’t hers. 

It’s his. 

And part of her knows it’s coming, the kiss and the feeling and she wants it, desperately, but part of her is wholly unprepared for the force of the emotion behind it, greedy and needy and it’s more out-of-place rhyme because the magic surrounding both of them soars. The first burst of light takes her by surprise, but then there are more, splashes of color staining the walls around them and the tracks under their feet and Emma almost feels like they’re dancing again, swaying into each other’s space and each other’s memory. 

She presses up, Killian groaning when her tongue swipes against his lips and her fingers scratch at the back of his hair and she _remembered_ that. She remembered that happening before, the same sound in a dimly lit corridor and a dress that made his eyes widen and they’d been dancing. 

She only realizes she’s closed her eyes when they snap open, a spectrum of colors everywhere she looks and she remembers. 

_It was them._

Is. Present tense. 

“Oh, shit,” Emma breathes, and that’s the least dignified response she could have come come up with. 

Killian’s smile widens, another searing kiss and he lets his forehead rest against hers. “Eloquent, darling,” he says. “Your highness. Sorry I’m late.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene on the fire escape was the first thing I thought of when I started writing this story. So thanks for reading that scene. And all the scenes, really. It's real nice. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	7. Chapter 7

_The Enchanted Forest, Many Years Ago_

She’s shivering when they find her. 

There’s snow on the ground and snow in her hair, a distinctly blue hue to the tips of her fingers that can’t possibly be right, but she's young and alone and she can’t really remember a time when she wasn’t shivering. 

The voice that calls for her is barely audible over the chattering of her teeth, an ache in her jaw that’s simply become part of the way she exists. She sits. And shivers. And sits some more. Occasionally she tries to ask for something, but no one ever pays her much heed and the blanket wrapped around her shoulders isn’t much more than a few bits of fabric she’s patched together herself. 

She doesn’t have a needle. 

She has no idea how long she’s been there, no memory beyond that alley and the few inches of space she’s been able to claim as her own. The other children are afraid of her. Because she doesn’t move.

She sits and shivers and the fluttering under her skin makes it feel as if she could make that same alley disappear entirely. She doesn’t know what it is, all she knows is that it’s been there longer than the alley and longer than her, an age to it that certainly doesn’t match up with her. 

It isn’t always bad – sometimes it settles in her, a low hum that’s almost pleasant, like the sound of sunlight, a warmth that works from her center out to her limbs and the tips of her hair and the heels of her feet. 

The same heels that are currently hanging out of the back of her shoes. 

The shoes are almost as old as the blanket. 

And it’s been so cold she can’t bring herself to fix them, not like she’s done with the blanket. It’s too much, an energy she can’t find when the alley is full of whispers and questions – _what is she doing_ and _why won’t she move_ and _did you see what happened to her hand_. 

They play on loop in her head and make her shake even more, the fear growing and festering and dousing out the light that she desperately wants to cling to. 

The voice calls for her again. 

“Oi, you there! What’s your name?”  
  
She jerks up, eyes going wide and lips pressed together, fear slinking down her spine. It’s more cold, dark and dank, but that may also be the pile of discarded scraps from the tavern at the other end of the alley and she doesn’t have an answer to that question. 

She has no idea what she’s capable of. Or who she is. She just is. Right there. In the alley. With fingers that, sometimes, sparkle and shine. 

The man takes a step closer towards her, fingers dancing on the hilt of a sword. She’s seen weapons before, some of them pointed at her when she’s trying to find bits of food or a bed that isn’t covered in snow, but something about _that_ man makes him keep the blade sheathed. 

He stares at her, an appraising look and the fear turns into something else, soft flames that lap at the back of her brain and warn her of something she can’t possibly understand. 

Not yet. 

The man blinks once, tongue flashing between his lips. He crouches down. He doesn’t point his sword at her. 

Ever. 

He’s young – younger than the other men she’s seen patrolling alleys and the darker corners of the town below the castle, looking for something or someone and she doesn’t ever listen to the rumors. She’s usually too busy trying to eat. And they scare her. The whispers and the talk, people taken and used, a small army being built behind walls that are far too high. They must be hiding something. 

There are a few medals on the man’s uniform, the little bit of light around them flashing off his chest, and she supposes that means he’s important. She wonders what he did to earn them. His hair is light, but not as much as hers, a slight curl and softness to it that makes her wonder if he won’t actually hurt her. The other men always seem to thrive on the hurt. She doesn’t think this man does. 

“You don’t have a name, do you?” he continues, and she doesn’t move. “Ah, that’s...well, everyone deserves a name, don’t you think?”  
  
She doesn’t respond. The cold has disappeared almost entirely, replaced by a heat and a spark and she glances down to make sure nothing is happening. She doesn’t want to scare him. She doesn’t want him to leave. 

He smiles at her. 

“That’s ok,” he says. “Not many people get to pick their own names. I think that makes you almost lucky.”

She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t really need a name, not here, at least. It seems silly to give a name to something no one wants. 

His smile flickers. “That’s ok,” he repeats. “We’ll..we’ll think of something together, huh? What if I told you my name first? Would that make you a little less scared?”  
  
She narrows her eyes, not sure how he’s figured _that_ out, but it doesn’t do much to make the unease in the pit of her stomach fade. She knows something is wrong. She just doesn’t think it has anything to do with him. 

She nods. And his smile returns to normal, an ease to it that makes her wonder if people can actually be like that. 

“My name is Liam,” he says. “I’m here to help you.”  
  
“No.”

The word falls unbidden from her lips, but she can’t shake the feeling lingering in her muscles and every inch of her feels tense with a fear that no one else should be able to understand. She’s not sure why she believes he can. 

But magic is in the air in Misthaven, grows in nearly everyone and no one ever wants to talk about it. It’s been there since the start, or so the stories say, sprouting out of something no one can remember the name of, passed on from family member to family member and, sometimes, if a person is very, very lucky, someone else can feel what they do. That doesn’t happen very often, though. 

Because no one is ever willing to share. 

They duck their eyes when asked, mumbled excuses for whatever it is they’re capable of because if anyone ever discovers them, it won’t be long until they’re gone. 

Disappear. 

Behind the walls and away from the town, away from everything and anyone who has ever loved them. She doesn’t have anyone like that. 

No one would notice her missing. 

“You don’t think so?” 

She shakes her head, snow falling on her shoulders. “You work for the King, don’t you?”  
  
“Smart,” he mutters, and it takes her a moment to realize what he’s doing, shrugging out of his jacket with its shiny medals to wrap the fabric around her shoulders. “That’ll help you when you get up there.”

“I don’t want to go there.”  
  
“I can’t do anything about that. I have orders. This could help. It’s--Gods,” He wipes a hand over his face, leaving red streaks in his wake and there’s a desperation to the movement. It’s anxious and nervous and almost a little cautious, as if he knows what he’s doing is wrong. And knows that he has to do it anyway. “I have to,’ Liam whispers, ducking his head into her eye line. “You have to understand. This can change everything. They won’t look at us anymore if they have someone like you.”  
  
She can’t stop shaking her head. It hurts. She hurts. “No.”  
  
“People have seen you. What you’re capable of and George...he wants that. He’s not going to stop. If I’m the one to bring you up there, it could--”

“Don’t make me go up there,” she pleads, a catch in her voice and tears staining her vision. She hopes they don’t freeze when they land on her cheeks. It’s so cold. Her lips are starting to crack. “Please, I can’t--I--”  
  
She sniffles, shoulders shaking with the force of it all, and she thinks she sees a flicker of doubt in Liam’s gaze – as if he’s no longer certain of orders or what he should and shouldn’t do. The jacket around her seems to get heavier. 

And it all happens quickly, enough that even in the years that will eventually stretch out before her and behind her, she’s never entirely sure _what_ happens. But the surge that moves through her is as strong as it’s ever been, lighting her up like a candle and the snow in her hair melts almost immediately. 

It is, she assumes, because her hair has lit up. There’s no fire, no smoke, nothing except the low burst of light that dances between the strands, wrapping itself around the curve of her jaw and the shell of her ear, tracing down the path of her arms and shining from the tips of her fingers. It doesn’t flicker, it, simply, shines, as if it’s coming directly from her and she knows it is.

She knows that’s what they want. 

Behind the wall. 

In the castle. 

They don’t want her. They want what she can do.

Liam doesn’t say anything – although his eyebrows do jump slightly and his mouth opens with an audible pop she can’t believe she can actually hear. He licks his lips again, eyes flitting around like he’s looking for someone and the deep breath he takes when he realizes they’re still alone is impossibly loud. 

He grits his teeth. And flips his hand. The ball of fire that appears in his palm isn’t large, but the warmth of it is nearly overpowering as she leans towards the flame on instinct. 

Her eyes flutter shut, shoulders sagging. It’s not an admission of defeat, not quite, more like a cease fire and she’s not entirely sure what changed. 

“They might be able to help you there,” Liam says, an empty promise that makes her scoff. He clicks his tongue. “Aye, that wasn’t very good, was it?” 

She shakes her head. Again. On loop. 

There’s still light lingering between her fingers. 

“No,” she whispers. “It wasn’t.”  
  
“You can’t stay here. You have to know that. If I leave you here, someone else will take you and then--”  
  
“--You won’t be able to collect your reward.”

Liam’s lips disappear behind his teeth, a sharp inhale and she may not know how long she’s been in that alley or what she’s capable of, but she’s always been very good at understanding people. And this man, with his medals and the little bit of power he doesn’t want anyone to know about, is far too easy to understand. 

“That’s true,” Liam admits softly. “I--you know that George is looking for someone who will be able to spark magic. To save it. The most powerful thing in the whole, entire world. That’s what the prophecy said.”  
  
“I’ve never heard the prophecy.”  
  
“Aye, I’d imagine you wouldn’t down here. But...well, I can promise you, at least, some better shoes. Maybe a few fine gowns. A warm meal.”  
  
“And what will you get?”  
  
“People have been talking about you, did you know that?” Emma jumps up, moving so quickly the jacket falls off her, landing in a heap at her feet. She steps in a puddle of snow. It melted from the fire. “I’m not sure what they’re saying is true,” Liam adds, “but they all believe you’re something and now I’ve seen it as well. It won’t stop with me. Others will come and they’ll find you and they’ll take you. No matter what you do.”  
  
“I won’t go.”  
  
“You won’t have a choice.”

The tears that, finally, land on her cheeks aren’t cold the way she feared they’d be. They’re hot, branding her skin and marking her with the fear she can’t contain any longer. And part of her knows that Liam is right. That she can’t stay in that alley, that the whispers will only grow and the looks will last a little longer, wary glances and pointed stares, and she can see the torment in his gaze. 

He doesn’t want this. 

He doesn’t have a choice. 

And neither does she. 

“Alright,” she says, doing her best to make it sound braver than it is. Her fingers flutter at her side. “What will you get if I go?”  
  
“George wants magic. He wants the power and the potential of all the people in this kingdom. To fight the Dark One.”  
  
“That’s not real.”  
  
“I’m afraid, my dear, in this case, the stories are true. This isn’t a punishment for existing. It’s--you can help. Fulfill the prophecy and save the kingdom. Destroy the Dark One. That’s what George is trying to do.”  
  
She blinks – realizing that Liam hasn’t ever used George’s title, a disrespect that doesn’t entirely match up with the medals. “You’ll get paid?” He nods, slow and measured with thin lips. “And you’ll be able to protect whoever you’re trying to protect? Because the king won’t look for more magic? He’ll--I’ll fix his prophecy?”

Liam is the one who stumbles that time, but there’s a flash of something on his face that may actually be pride. As if he’s impressed. She’s never seen that look before. “George will stop with you. I’m...I’m certain of it. And this will--”  
  
“--Will it make you an officer?”  
  
“It might.”  
  
She considers that for a moment, the man in front of her and the way his eyebrows pull together when he stares at her, an imploring look that seems to sink into her. She wonders who he’s protecting. She wonders how one person could care for another that much. 

To give her up. 

She nods. 

“Alright,” she mutters. “I’ll go with you.”

Liam exhales, a burst of air and flames that disappear as suddenly as they arrived. He steps back into her space, draping the jacket over her shoulders and holding his hand out. She takes it. “Thank you,” he whispers, squeezing her fingers slightly. 

The walk to the castle isn’t long, but it winds through the entire city, more than a few curious glances thrown their direction as they continue. She doesn’t count the steps, far too focused on controlling her magic and that’s the first time she’s really considered that word. 

Magic. In her veins and in her heart, a bit of her that’s equal parts terrifying and not, power she isn’t sure she wants or wants to understand, but knows she can’t run from and she, simply, wants to be. 

She doesn’t want people to be scared. She doesn’t want to be scared. Not anymore. 

“What are you doing here, Jones?”

There are more men in front of the castle gates, swords and medals and glowering stares, shadows that hang off the edges of their noses and the jut of their chins. She tries to keep breathing. Liam tightens his grip on her hand. 

“It’s alright,” he mutters, before turning back to the man in front of him. His sword is half out of its sheath. “I’m here to bring the Savior to the King.”

She gasps when the sword turns on her, the point ghosting against her skin and she doesn’t think. She doesn’t consider. She doesn’t wonder what’s right or wrong. She reacts, a burst and a flash and the light that explodes out of the middle of her sends the man in front of her sailing into the nearest wall. 

“Gods,” Liam breathes, stepping in front of her when more men move towards them. There are swords and lances and the girl that walks through the suddenly open doors is only a few years older than her. 

Her hair is dark, draped over her shoulder, with a glint in her gaze that looks almost identical to the ball of fire hanging just above her upturned palm. She sneers when she notices Liam, lips curling slightly and her gown is as fine as he promised they’d find behind the walls. 

“The King is busy,” she announces. “And you’ve brought a weapon here, Jones.”  
  
“I haven’t, Regina. I wouldn’t--she’s powerful, yes, but that’s only because she doesn’t know how to control it. Look at what she just did. You think that’s not a spark that can save magic, defeat the darkness--”  
  
“--Don’t speak to me about the Dark One! Don’t!”  
  
Liam sighs, but he doesn’t argue and the magic continues to rush through her. The girl – her name must be Regina – turns towards her, another look that feels like an interrogation without the questions and--

“She does look powerful,” Regina muses. “Does the power have a name?”  
  
He opens his mouth to respond, eyes flitting towards her with unspoken question and, she’s sure, eventually simply reacting will be the wrong decision. But in the moment, with Liam’s fingers tight around hers and Regina’s eyes staring straight at her, swords pointed and low mumblings, there is no other choice _but_ to react.  
  
“Emma,” she says. “My name is Emma.”  
  
Liam’s smile widens. “You hear that, your highness? Her name is Emma and she’s going to save every last one of us.”

* * *

She does, in fact, get more than a few very impressive gowns. The fabric is soft, no matter what, a never-ending stream of colors and designs, but each one feels heavy somehow, as if Emma knows that wearing them isn’t right. 

Because she’s not right. 

The years pass and time, suddenly, has a meaning, even when she’s stuck behind walls that seem to grow higher every day. She never sees Liam Jones again, but she does wonder occasionally about who he was protecting and part of her knows it wasn’t him. 

He has magic. 

And, as he said, King George of Misthaven has a habit for collecting magical beings. He never brings in Liam. 

It’s the rumors Emma had been so quick to ignore, but now that she’s living it, it’s impossible to push away, watching George gather up those with power like he’s collecting trophies for the room at the far end of the great hall. 

“It is to protect us,” George says, a mantra Emma can repeat on loop, nearly four years after she first walked through the castle doors. “The Dark One is coming. And he’ll have an army as well, a power we cannot hope to contend with. That’s all changed now though, hasn’t it?”  
  
Emma, apparently, is the last piece of a puzzle she didn’t realize she was part of, but she also appears to be the one thing that won’t fit – exceptionally good at failing and floundering, the foretold savior who can’t even stop her own fingers from sparking. 

The seeress had come, years before, leaves falling on the ground and a chill in the air that Emma figures should have been some kind of sign. As if it was clear that everything else was dying already. The seeress had been very clear, though, words that Emma has heard on loop since she walked through the castle doors: 

_A Savior of old,_

_With future foretold,_

_A key and a spark,_

_The future of magic and light in the dark,_

_A Swan and a Knight,_

_Preparing to fight._

George makes her recite them whenever he sees her, a reminder of what she is and what she has to be because--"No one else has your power, Emma, my dear.” 

The endearment makes her skin crawl. And, strictly speaking, it’s not exactly true. There are plenty of other magical beings in Misthaven, even plenty behind the castle walls, who are more than capable of saving magic or sparking magic or _whatever_ it is Emma is supposedly able to do. She regularly finds sparks at the ends of her fingers, an impatience and instinct that doesn’t help during the hours of study George makes them go through every day. 

She loathes practicing magic.

It regularly makes Regina roll her eyes, that same sneer that Emma has come to learn is simply part of her genetic makeup. She can control her power. And her power is...well, powerful. She can produce fireballs on a whim, mumbled words under her breath and a control that was fostered at the Dark One’s knee. 

Or so Mary Margaret tells Emma one night when they’re unable to sleep, a day spent trying to cast spells and find the easy equilibrium Regina simply seems to have been born with. 

“That’s not true,” Mary Margaret promises, tucked under blankets that are nearly as soft as the dresses. “Regina wasn’t...her mother was a witch.”  
  
Emma can’t help the smile that tugs at the ends of her lips. “We’re all witches. Some of us are just a little more proud of it than others.”  
  
“That’s because Regina had to fight.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“She ran,” Mary Margaret whispers. Her voice goes low, but her eyes go wide, and Emma has to chew on her lip to stop herself from asking more questions. She’s constantly asking questions. She figures that’s the only way to find some sense of control. 

She’d broken a vase that afternoon, a flash of power flying out of her left pinky finger before she could even begin to contain it. 

“She doesn’t like to talk about it,” Mary Margaret continues, and George calls her _Snow_ , a joke about _purity_ and _propriety_ that rings hollow every time Emma hears it. She knows that’s not what Mary Margaret is, can see the power that burns low and steady, a quiet confidence that comes to the surface whenever George isn’t nearby.

Mary Margaret _believes_ , she wants and hopes and clings to everything good in the world, a direct contrast to everything that exists in that castle, the narrow halls and cold rooms, even with roaring fires and fine linens. She still smiles. It’s what makes it so easy to trust her, that certainty that Mary Margaret will _defend_ them all with her last breath, an unspoken promise that Emma has started to covet. 

Even when she knows Mary Margaret’s breath hitches as soon as the magic around Emma bursts to life unexpectedly. 

That happens far more often she’d like. 

“Why?” Emma presses, digging her head further into the pillows underneath her. There are far too many of them. She can never get comfortable in that bed. “She certainly likes to talk about everything else.”

“Because it scares her.”  
  
“Please, nothing scares Regina.”  
  
“The Dark One does. He wanted her, thought he could twist her magic to do his bidding and it didn’t--her mother gave her up, sent her away and sent her to the Dark One, a bartering chip to better her own standing.”  
  
Emma’s mouth drops, disbelief and the desperate desire to believe it isn’t true, if only so she can continue to hate Regina just a little bit. She hopes George doesn’t find out about the vase. She should have tried to fix the vase. 

She can’t seem to fix anything. 

“And she stayed with him for years,” Mary Margaret continues. There are tears in her eyes. Mary Margaret wants to save everyone. “He helped her with her magic, but it was--he destroyed it too, rebuilt it so he could control it and--”

“--We’re not worried about that?” Emma cuts in, that little hint of fear she’s never been able to shake creeping into her voice. 

“Regina wouldn’t hurt us, Emma.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
“I believe that,” Mary Margaret says, the closest thing to a snap her voice has ever done. Emma closes her mouth. “Because she left. The Dark One wanted to...turn her, warp her to his will and it must have been close because she’ll barely say two words about it now, but it’s what’s made her so in control of her magic. I don’t think he ever expected her to run like that. He believed she was his. Completely.”

Emma doesn’t respond. She can’t. Because they all have stories like that – David ripped from his home when his mother died, made captain of a guard of men who, Emma is certain, will one day turn on him, afraid of what he’s capable of. Ruby was found in the hills on the other side of the kingdom during a transformation, the amulet thrown around her neck forcing her back into her human form so she could serve as protector of the magic George coveted for himself. 

No one seemed to know how Elsa got to Misthaven, but her magic was as volatile as Emma’s and she’d never tried to run.

None of them did. 

Because the Dark One was waiting, lurking in the shadows and biding his time and George was doing them _a service_ , or so he was quick to remind them. Every day. Since Emma had first walked through the castle doors. 

“I’ve given you a life,” he’d tell them, lips twisted and eyes barely more than slits. “A chance to prove yourself and your worth. I’ve given you titles and opportunity and all I ask of you is control. To control yourselves and give yourselves when the world demands it.”

They were prisoners and they were not. They were students and lambs being groomed for the slaughter, a battle none of them could possibly understand yet, but one Emma knew she’d have to, eventually, fight. 

If she can ever learn how to control her magic. 

It changes unexpectedly, even now, a buzz under her skin and a hum in the back of her brain. It’s desperate and defiant, as if it knows something is wrong, as if it knows it’s being tricked. It’s difficult to trust. 

Emma doesn’t trust herself and she knows, despite whatever story Regina had or however often Mary Margaret gave her that quiet, soft smile, they don’t quite trust her either. They worry. They prepare. They don’t believe she’s the Savior. 

And neither does she. 

She has no idea what that word means, only that it exists, a set of expectations and demands she’s positive she can’t reach, things that only serve to linger in her muscles, a dead weight in the pit of her stomach that makes it difficult to breathe and even more difficult to be. Emma, simply, wants to be. 

“Emma?” Mary Margaret asks softly, the bed on the other side of the room creaking when she moves. “Did you fall asleep?”

She doesn’t respond. Again. It’s petty and childish, but Emma is still a child and she grips the blanket underneath her tight enough to rip it. 

She singes it instead. 

Mary Margaret sighs, but she doesn’t press any more, leaning forward quickly to blow out the candle on the table between them.

* * *

It doesn’t get better. Emma’s magic continues to grow, unrestrained and unrestricted and it’s warm when it happens. Even inside the castle, stone walls that constantly make everything damp. 

There’s sweat pooling at the base of her skull, small droplets at her temple and it’s the worst it’s ever been. The magic rushes through every inch of Emma, barely aware of Mary Margaret and Ruby’s panicked voices, and David has to tell the guards that move towards her to back away. 

“That won’t help,” he says, low and menacing and it takes Emma a moment to realize he’s talking to her. 

She squeezes her eyes closed, but that doesn’t do much to help the scene in front of her change. She can still hear boots and mumbled words, quiet assurances that _no, no, don’t bother the king, just...find Regina, maybe_ and Emma’s breath shakes its way out of her, oxygen she’s positive she probably could have used. 

Her body doesn’t care. 

It lets it go, flying out of her without much care to the state of her lungs or the irregular beat of her heart, as if it can’t contain that either. As if breathing is also too much power for one person. 

Emma flexes her fingers, a soft crackle of magic when she digs her nails into her palm. Her mouth has gone dry. It’s probably from the heat. 

It’s not from the heat. 

“I’m--” she starts, but she has no idea what she is or what she’s doing and the Dark One has never come. The threat has never been all that...threatening. And Emma doesn’t think, again, or still, or _whatever_ , she just moves, stepping towards David with a look she hopes he understands. 

He must. He doesn’t try to stop her when she leaves, but his fingers curl around her shoulder anyway, words pressed against her sweat-soaked hair. “Come back. Please.”

She doesn’t say anything. That is becoming a frustrating habit of hers. And she really isn’t certain where she’s going when she moves, but her footsteps are sure and she twists around the tiny bit of space in the back wall of the castle grounds, doing her best to ignore every look sent her direction. There are more than a few. 

Emma doesn’t slow down. She keeps walking, eyes trained on the ground underneath her and the shoes that no longer have holes in them. She walks past places she dimly remembers, moments that have gotten hazier the more years have passed, but it’s almost comforting, the distant memories and forgotten feelings and she’s moving through the crowd at the harbor before she even realizes that’s where she was heading.  
  
It smells like salt. 

She pushes her way past people – ignoring the _your highness_ and _princess_ that hang in the air around her because they don’t often leave the castle, but George has done an admirable job of making sure Misthaven knows its royal court. Emma refuses to look up, more steps until she finds her way to the end of the first dock she spots, dropping down and letting her feet dangle over the edge. 

The water isn’t deep here, but there are still tiny waves, little shifts and a bit of foam and she takes a deep breath, trying to focus on that, the small show of power, even when the ocean is contained by the shore. 

“Are you alright?”  
  
Emma nearly falls in the goddamn water. She snaps her head around, eyes flying open and magic flying out of her and the man standing a few feet away from her isn’t really a man. He can’t be more than sixteen, dark hair that drifts dangerously close to his eyes and brows that jump his forehead when she glares at him. 

“What?”  
  
“Are you alright?” he repeats, and there’s no one else around them. No one else has followed her. No one else has tried to approach her. 

It probably has something to do with the light emanating from her fingers. 

“Why?”  
  
The eyebrows get higher. It’s almost impressive, but Emma’s heart is still beating impossibly quick and she can’t seem to catch her breath. She hasn’t actually stood up yet. “What do you mean why?” he challenges. “It’s a simple question, don’t you think?”  
  
She shakes her head slowly – a little disappointed with herself when she starts breathing through her mouth. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t run or shout, doesn’t even look like he recognizes her, really, just keeps staring at her with a hint of vaguely familiar interest that also feels entirely brand new. 

Exciting. 

That’s the word for it. 

Emma’s tongue darts between her lips, trying to prevent them from cracking and ensure that this isn’t a dream and neither one of those things really happen. That’s less exciting. “No,” she whispers, wringing her hands together. “It’s not. Not really.”

He lowers his eyebrows, lips twisted thoughtfully and she can barely get out here _no, just stay there, please_ before he’s taking a step towards her. There’s a hole in his boot. And the knee of his pants, the last remnants of what Emma assumes is the most recent patch job barely hanging on when he crouches down in front of her. 

“Ok, so you don’t have to answer it,” he mutters, half a laugh and an almost smile. Emma gapes at him. 

“What?”  
  
“You’ll have to come up with a few more words if you want me to actually have a conversation with you, your highness.”

She snaps her mouth closed, teeth clacking. “How do you know that?”  
  
“Your rather obvious magic?”  
  
“I could have you in the stocks for that,” Emma seethes, but they both know it’s an empty threat because she snuck out of the castle. Ran out of the castle. Really. If she wanted to get technical. She does not want to get technical. 

The boy’s shoulders shake when he laughs, the smile that stretches across his face almost enough to comfort the wave still twisting in the very center of her. He winks. He, at least, tries to wink. And it’s so absurd, so unacceptable that Emma can’t quite contain her laugh, the sound bubbling out of her and echoing around them and--

“I’d rather you didn’t do that, princess,” he murmurs. She hates that endearment too. “If it weren’t too much trouble, that is. I am, after all, only trying to help.”  
  
“Is that what you’re doing then?”  
  
“I’m trying at least.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Ah, we’re going in circles now.”  
  
“And a gentleman should, at least, introduce himself,” Emma says, trying to keep her voice low as if that will make her threatening or some kind of authority. The smile widens. “Particularly when speaking to the--”  
  
“--Sovereign?”  
  
“You don’t know how to wink!”  
  
“If that’s an insult, princess, I’m afraid you missed the mark just a tad.”  
  
She scowls, a huff of frustration and magic. His eyes widen. As if---no, that’s impossible and improbable and Emma needs to get back to the castle before she’s missed. David will only be able to make excuses for her for so long. 

“And,” the boy adds, “I’m not exactly a gentleman.”  
  
“Obviously.”

He laughs, running his fingers through his hair and tugging lightly on the few strands that curl around his right ear. “Killian,” he says, and Emma doesn’t think she imagines the way he leans forward slightly. “My name is Killian Jones.”  
  
Her jaw aches. It is, likely, because it keeps falling open. And the air rushing out of her is almost as absurd as the slight overreaction, but she’s always wondered and this--the boy with the far-too-long hair and slightly ratty clothes and eyes that are deceptively similar to the water under her feet, he’s the one Liam Jones was protecting. 

Because he doesn’t have magic. 

And Liam couldn’t leave him behind. 

“My brother wondered about you,” Killian adds, voice dropping and he’s definitely moving closer. “He--I know he felt bad, but--”

Emma hums, knows it’s dismissive and far too rude for a princess, but she’s never really considered herself a princess and her magic flares to life again. Killian flinches. 

It makes her whole body ache. 

“Did you know?” she asks, barely able to get the words out while she tries to focus on controlling her magic. 

“Did I know what?”  
  
“Who I was when you came over here or were you just--”  
  
“--No, I knew,” Killian interrupts. “The magic was mostly a confirmation, but…” He cuts himself off, another soft laugh and Emma opens her eyes. She hadn’t realized she’d closed them, gasping softly when she notices the small ball of light in her palm. “It’s impressive, your highness,” he says. “And--”  
  
“--Don’t call me that,” Emma cuts in, and he at least has the common sense to nod in agreement. “I...I wasn’t trying to do that. The light thing, I mean.”  
  
“Aye, I almost figured.”  
  
“You shouldn’t make assumptions either.”  
  
“Is there a list I should be following, then? A set of rules for the conversation?” The light shifts in time with the seemingly never-ending size of her annoyance, and Killian moves almost immediately. His fingers are rough when they wrap around her wrist, calloused skin that scrapes against hers, but it’s almost kind of grounding and just a little impertinent. 

All things considered. 

“Hey, hey,” he mutters, rushing over the words and Emma can’t quite swallow whatever wad of feeling has appeared in the back of her throat. “It’s ok, you’re ok.”

She nods, agreeing to _something_ that may just be the sound of his voice, but she’s also drowning in the scent of salt and the weight of her own magic, so Emma figures she can’t really be held accountable for her actions. “You don’t know that.”  
  
“You really do enjoy arguing with me, don’t you?”  
  
“I don’t know you,” Emma points out. “And you did just follow me out here. Magic all--you know, doing what it does.”  
  
“And what does it do, exactly?”  
  
She shrugs. “Not much. At least not much I can control. It’s--well, it scares people. Usually.”  
  
“Usually?”  
  
“You do seem rather determined.”  
  
His eyes do not sparkle. It is absurd to think so. So, Emma refuses to continue thinking it. “I…” Killian starts, gaze falling back to the fingers still wrapped around hers. Something falls over the front of his shirt when he leans forward, more than a few charms and something that catches the light and Emma’s going to have to magic away the burn on the back of her neck. 

The sun is very strong by the water. 

“You…”

“I saw you and you were alone,” Killian says. “And I, well...I knew who you were and, like I said, Liam’s always wondered...he never meant to hurt you, Emma. I wouldn’t…” 

She wishes he would finish his sentences. She’s not sure she’s actually capable of dealing with those same sentences if he _did_ finish them. 

“I didn’t want you to be by yourself.”  
  
“No one else seems to have much of a problem with it.”  
  
“Aye, well maybe I’m not everyone else.”

“That’s actually almost fairly gallant,” Emma mutters. “I’ve never been able to, you know...control it back like that.”  
  
“That seems like a good thing.”  
  
She nods. “It does. I just--you didn’t have to follow me, you know.”  
  
Killian blinks, far too blue and even more understanding and one side of his mouth tugs up. It isn’t the pity Emma has gotten used to though – no sense of distrust or caution, just something that feels a bit like _maybe_ and a hint like _almost_ and he offers her his hand when he stands up. 

“Have you ever had toffee?”  
  
That’s not the last thing Emma expects him to ask, but it’s certainly near the end of the list she’s never made and her answering scoff is more than a little incredulous. “Is that a joke?”  
  
“I’d never joke with the high princess about something as serious as stealing toffee.”  
  
“You want to steal it?”  
  
“Did you have another idea?”  
  
Emma grins, half a plan and that ever-growing hope and she nearly jumps up when Killian flutters his fingers in her space. “You’re not running,” she says, regretting the words almost as soon as they’re out of her mouth. 

“Why would I?”  
  
Her magic rings out around her, flutters the ends of her hair and makes the string hanging off Killian’s shirt shift slightly, and his thumb brushes the back of her wrist when she laces his fingers through his. “Ok,” she says, another agreement that seems to make everything shift. 

“Ok.”

David is waiting for her, hours and several bars of magically stolen toffee later, pacing a small circle near the wall Emma had snuck out of. He tilts his head when he sees her, gaze turning curious with questions he doesn’t actually ask.  
  
“Good,” he says instead, and Emma exhales. “The back of your neck is all red.”  
  
“I can fix that.”  
  
“Yeah, I know you can.”

She does. And no one ever knows. 

* * *

“What about Swan?”

Emma hums, confusion in the sound and the furrow of her brows. It’s spring, the sky finally turning clear again, any hint of snow melted away and she hadn’t been able to get out of the castle when it had been there. 

They’d tried other things – enlisting Mary Margaret and the bird that landed on her windowsill every morning, tiny letters with cramped writing and meaningless updates that meant absolutely everything to Emma. 

Emma told him about dress fittings and magic lessons. Killian told her about Liam’s latest posting in town and the job he’d gotten moving boxes by the harbor. She asked about anything she could think of. He asked about everything she failed to come up with. 

It was nice. It was secret. It was going to get them both in trouble some day, but someday isn’t _this_ day and her magic is still...troublesome, but getting better, not quite as many outbursts and a growing sense of confidence that Emma is beginning to suspect may have something to do with the return of the sun and how easy it is to sneak out of the castle grounds when she has both David and Ruby covering for her. 

She tilts her head up, propping herself on her elbows and Killian arches an eyebrow. “What do you think about Swan?”

“You’re speaking in tongues.”  
  
“I’m asking your opinion.”  
  
“On?”  
  
“What endearments I’m allowed.”  
  
She nearly falls over, a feat that would be incredibly impressive while laying down, legs stretched out in decidedly un-princess-like manor beneath the tree they’ve, at some point in the last few weeks, claimed as their own. “You’re making fun,” she accuses, but that’s not it, not really. Anything else feels impossibly large though. 

Killian shakes his head, that look Emma’s starting to consider in ways that are as impossible as endearments and--"I think Swan makes perfect sense,” he says. 

“How so?”  
  
“Have you ever seen a swan, Swan?”  
  
“I’m going to magic your eyebrows off.”  
  
He waggles them, as if that proves she won’t and it’s as ridiculous as it is true. Emma huffs, falling back on the ground. She’s going to get grass in her hair. She’s fairly certain her dress is already stained, mud-drenched hem and a hint of green to the fabric that she’ll have to cover up before she goes back to her rooms. 

Soon. 

She always has to go back soon. 

“If you’re going to ask my opinion on endearments, shouldn’t you wait to use them before I respond to the question?”  
  
“Ah, but you’ve been taking so long, Swan.”  
  
“Gods, you’re a menace.”

Emma doesn’t have to look up to know that he’s smiling, can feel the force of it on the side of her face like it’s another version of the sun. That’s a far too sentimental thought. “Aye,” Killian agrees, shifting until his leg is pressed against hers. He moves his arms under his head, flipping to the side to glance at her and she’d been right about the smile. “But you’re here, Swan. And I really do think it’s the best option.”  
  
“Of?”  
  
“Well, you won’t let me call use your title.”  
  
“Because it’s fake.”  
  
“It’s not,” Killian objects. “It’s your...birthright.”  
  
Emma scoffs, but he says it with such conviction she can’t quite do anything except believe him. That’s becoming a theme. It’s very easy. “That’s rather melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“Been to any balls recently?”  
  
“Explain the Swan jab.”  
  
“Aye, aye your highness.”  
  
“Killian,” she groans, turning on her side to try and jab him in the chest, but they’ve spent enough time together that she’d consider them friends and he’s very good at reading her. From the very start. He catches her around the wrist, _again_ , thumb pressed exactly where her pulse thuds unevenly and Emma can almost see his eyes darken slightly. 

“You have to promise not to curse me.”  
  
“Why are you adding caveats?”  
  
“A promise, Swan.”  
  
“You’re still doing it!”

He widens his eyes, another shift of eyebrows that might be magic in its own right. “That’s true,” he mumbles, and for half a moment, one crazy, insane moment she believes he’s going to kiss her. He doesn’t. Because this is...impossible and improbable and neither one of them have ever actually acknowledged it. 

“A little bite with the beauty, swans,” Killian adds. “Very quick to defend themselves and those they...care about.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
He nods, a soft sound in the back of his throat that might be an agreement. Emma’s magic flickers on the edge of her consciousness, clinging to the _almosts_ and _maybes_ and how much she wants. Full stop. 

“I don’t hate it,” she grumbles, more false emotion she shouldn’t be using when she’s feeling so much genuine emotion. 

Killian’s answering smile is wide. And genuine. And Gods does she wish he would kiss her. He doesn’t. Still. 

That’s probably for the best. 

“Well,” he says, squeezing her hand and turning his eyes back towards the sky, “that’s a start.”

* * *

The years pass. Emma keeps sneaking out of the castle. Killian keeps sneaking out of his house. He never comes to the castle. She never comes to his house. 

They sit under the tree. 

They wander through the central market – a spell Emma masters when she’s fifteen that deflects gazes and curious stares – and his fingers graze the back of her wrist whenever their arms are near each other. 

He steals her toffee on her birthday. A birthday he made her pick. 

“You have to have a birthday, Swan, that’s how the world works,” he’d reasoned, and Emma picks spring. For...reasons. 

The bird – _His name is Andrew, Emma, at least use his name when he’s so quick to help you_ – flies back and forth in the winter, letters that grow longer with unspoken wants and secret hopes and neither one of them ever talks about it. 

The magic. 

And how Killian can’t ever stop his eyebrows from jumping when he feels it. 

Emma assumes they’ll get there eventually. 

She hopes. She steals him toffee on his birthday. Andrew doesn’t take kindly to the added weight on his legs. 

* * *

Liam is named captain. Of a ship. It’s not a particular surprise – he’s gained more medals over the years, although Emma only knows that because Killian has told her. Still, she’s heard the tales of Liam Jones and his determination to serve the kingdom, part of impressive crews on important missions and it was only a matter of time. 

And even less time until she did something about it. 

Because she’s seen the way Killian’s eyes drop when he talks about his brother, his own _almosts_ that haunt his gaze and leave him half in shadow. He doesn’t have magic. There’s nothing. No hint, no ghost, just an emptiness that Emma worries is getting larger the longer he spends on those docks. 

He doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t ask. She acts. And hopes she’s not wrong. 

David smiles when he hands her the sheet of paper. 

She’d called in a favor. 

“Easy,” he promises. 

“You think there will be questions?”  
  
“Oh, I have no doubt, but it’s a little late for that and I’m sure both Captain and Lieutenant Jones will be more than adept at deflecting any pesky rumors regarding the Misthaven royal family.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but she hopes it’s true. She hopes he’s not mad. “It’ll be fine,” she says, half to herself, but David nods anyway. 

“You may want to tell him though. Soon?”  
  
Her whole body tenses, shoulders going straight and teeth finding her lower lip. “Why? What do you know?”  
  
“It was going to happen, Emma and--”  
  
“--An answer, David!”  
  
“The Jewel of the Realm sets sail in less than two weeks. Maiden voyage. From what I hear Captain Jones is very excited.”  
  
She knows her anger is unfounded – particularly when she’d pulled strings and acted on instinct, but it rushes through her anyway and David doesn’t react. He can’t feel the magic. 

“Gods,” she hisses, spinning on her heels and she only has to blink once before she’s standing on the edge of the dock, Killian wide-eyed and open-mouthed in front of her.  
  
“Swan, what are you---”

“Here,” she cuts in sharply, thrusting her hand into the minimal open space between them. He startles at the movement, but he doesn’t actually take a step away from her and eventually she’ll think that is impressive. “This is...well, it’s for you.”

His eyes narrow when he tugs the paper out of her grip, gaze moving across lines and declarations and he closes his mouth. Only to open it again. And close it. And open it. 

So he can scoff.  
  
Loudly. 

“Did you do this?”  
  
Emma nods, quick and jerky. “Yes.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“What do you mean why?”  
  
Killian lifts his head slowly, that one strand of hair that never seems to cooperate with the rest of them falling across his forehead. And she’s seen looks – has seen _years_ , expressions she’s committed to memory and moments she’s certain are imprinted on her soul at this point, but she’s never seen anything like that and the flicker of darkness in his gaze makes her arm tremble at her side. 

“Why did you do that, Emma?” Killian asks, voice turning gruff. “That’s--what did you have to do to get that?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Don’t lie, Emma.”  
  
“I’m not!” It’s a lie, and not a particularly good one, insulting to both of them. Killian jaw clenches. “I--Liam is leaving. And, well...when he found me, when he took me to George the one thing he told me was that he was doing it to---” She huffs, more anger and tears in her eyes. Killian looks torn, that bit of shadow lingering and fighting with the blue in his eyes and his fingers are cold when they curl around her elbow. “I knew he was protecting someone,” Emma whispers. “I just--I didn’t know it was you, until…”  
  
“I followed you to the docks.”  
  
“You made sure I wasn’t alone,” she corrects. “And now I can do the same.”

He stares at her for a moment, as if he’s waiting to be told it’s all one, great big joke. As if she’s a joke. Or...impossible. It’s impossible. And she doesn’t care. 

_She wants_. 

With her whole being. 

“You didn’t have to do that, love,” Killian breathes, and neither one of them say anything about that either. They don’t have to. It simply is. “I don’t...it’s too much and I don’t--”  
  
She doesn’t let him finish. Emma pushes up on her toes, fingers gripping the front of Killian’s shirt and the soft crinkle of his letter is oddly satisfying as soon as he pulls her against his chest. Her lips find his, all energy and need and the force of it makes Emma whole world feel as if it’s flipping and flopping and settling into exactly what it was always meant to be. 

She slings an arm around his neck, fingers finding the back of his hair and whatever noise he makes at that leaves her magic singing, a burst of triumph that makes her certain she could do just about anything. They don’t stop. They don’t pull apart. They shift, tilted heads and searching tongues, noses pressed together and roaming hands that can’t find enough skin when they’re standing in the middle of the dock in the middle of the afternoon. 

And it’s a miracle no one sees them, but Emma can’t bring herself to care if anyone did. 

Her lungs start to burn, an ache in her legs that’s almost pleasant, and Emma can’t begin to formulate a meaningful thought when Killian’s mouth drops down to her jaw, trailing kisses along her cheek and her chin and the side of her neck. She gasps, arching back against the arm she hadn't realized was wrapped around her and it’s too much. 

It’s not nearly enough. 

And she still has to get back. 

“Thank you, Swan,” Killian whispers, the words pressed against the crown of her head. “For--I won’t let you down, love.”  
  
“I know you won’t. Just…”  
  
The words get caught in her throat, a fear that she doesn’t want to give credence to, but Emma is greedy and selfish and she knows he can feel her magic. “Every single time, Emma,” Killian says. “Every single time.”

And there’s a ceremony eventually, crisp uniforms and brand-new medals pinned to slightly puffed-out chests and Emma presents Lieutenant Killian Jones with a sword from the royal armory, a golden hilt and sharp blade and--  
  
“Come back,” she whispers, close enough that no one else can hear and she can see the way his lips quirk. 

He belts the sword around his hips, catching her fingers in his and the scandal that the next few moments will cause will be whispered about in town for weeks. He brushes his fingers over her knuckles. “Always, love. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I watched The Umbrella Academy right before I wrote this. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	8. Chapter 8

“You realize you’re fidgeting, right?”

Emma blinks, startling slightly at the hint of laughter clinging to Mary Margaret’s words and she’s met with half a smile when she glances at the reflection in the mirror. “What?”  
  
“Fidgeting,” Mary Margaret repeats. “Twitching, even.”  
  
“Twitching is a terrible word.”  
  
“Yes, it is actually, which is why it would be wonderful if you could stop so I don’t actually stab you in the back of the head.”

Emma makes a less than dignified noise, lips tugged behind her teeth to try and stop herself from laughing too loudly and drawing the attention of the small contingent of maids she knows is lurking on the other side of the door. Mary Margaret had ushered them out of the room hours before, promises that _she was more than capable_ on the tip of her tongue, but Emma had, admittedly, barely been paying attention to it. 

She is absolutely, positively fidgeting. And twitching. Even if it is a terrible word. 

Her muscles do not care though, an energy that’s simmered under her skin since the first message returned to the castle and she’s certain every person who’s glanced her direction in the last few days has noticed the magic that practically pours out of her at this point. 

She’s light with it, a buoyancy to _her_ that makes her feel giddy and powerful and something she’s never entirely felt before, but the feeling has grown over the last few years and he’s kept his promise. 

_Every single time._

The story of the brothers Jones has turned into something resembling modern day legend in Misthaven. They’re a rags to riches to officer tale that inspires the masses and makes them believe, a change to the kingdom that’s been as jarring as it’s been wonderful. They leave and return, sailing between lands and monarchs and Emma’s magic grows with every passing season and every passing certainty that he’s waiting for her as much as she’s waiting for him.

There’s no threat of the Dark One, no hint of anything except _good_ magic and complete control and the people in the town below the castle don’t cower quite as often. There are fewer disappearances and Emma’s fingers haven’t sparked in years and the phrase _age of prosperity_ is thrown out with an alarming amount of consistency. 

There are days spent in gardens and moments in the town, smiling and nodding and they’re _allowed_ in town now. Encouraged, even, a benevolent royal family of magic and power and an armada led by two men the entire kingdom seems besotted with. 

There is, however, the pesky little problem of the kingdom’s actual sovereign. 

George is very rarely seen outside his study. He sits there, hour after hour and day after day, hidden behind stacks of books and bits of research, refusing to tell anyone what he’s up to or what he’s planning and Emma knows he’s planning something. 

And that’s far too small a word because part of Emma still worries and wonders and she never forgets the words of the prophecy, but then the Jewel of the Realm docks in the harbor and her feet move without her explicit permission and the arms that wrap around her seem to tighten just a bit more every single time. 

_Every single time._

“Emma,” Mary Margaret chides, digging the tip of her finger into the top of her shoulder. “You’re doing it again. Stop moving so much.” 

She scrunches her nose, huffing softly, but that only leads to slightly slumped shoulders and Mary Margaret’s exasperated groan threatens to crack the mirror in front of them. She shouldn’t be so worried. 

There’s nothing to worry about. 

Not anymore. 

And part of her wants that. Part of her needs that, desperately, the certainty she’d been certain she’d never have, but part of her knows that certainty is a passing thing and George can’t possibly be trusted and--

“What do you think he’s doing?” Emma asks, the question falling out of her suddenly without much thought and Mary Margaret’s eyes narrow. 

“Who? Killian?”  
  
“What? No, why would--that’s ridiculous.”  
  
“That was terrible, you realize that, right?”  
  
“I don’t have anything to be terrible about. There’s nothing going on with, Gods, _ow_ \--what are you doing?”  
  
Mary Margaret winces, gritting her teeth when she hisses in a breath of surprised air. “Well, if you would stop moving so much this wouldn’t be a problem,” she mutters. “And you’re kidding me, right? You think we don’t know what you’ve been doing for...how long has it been?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking me. Since when?”  
  
“Emma.”

She sighs again, and her shoulders are going to ache for the rest of the night. That may hinder her plans for the rest of the night. She assumes she needs her shoulders to be able to retain most of their motion if she wants to lift her arms at all. 

That generally helps when dancing. 

And dancing, generally, happens at a ball. Like the one happening that night. Honoring Captain and Lieutenant Jones. For their most recent voyage – months at sea for reasons even David didn’t know about and Emma wishes she weren’t so much of a pessimist. 

She wishes she weren’t so scared of George. 

“You’re looking awfully sure of yourself,” Emma mumbles, a quick roll of her eyes that threatens to muss the carefully lined kohl there. 

“What was that I heard about objections to anything going on?”  
  
Emma clicks her tongue. “That wasn’t what I was talking about. Not really.”  
  
“Or it was just a very good way of ignoring my questions.”  
  
“Well, when it’s such a sudden and unexpected interrogation--”  
  
“--Ruby wanted to ask when they left,” Mary Margaret cuts in, and Emma’s jaw actually cracks when it drops open. “See, so...this isn’t nearly as bad as it could be.”  
  
“You stabbed me with a hair pin.”  
  
“Not on purpose.”

Emma scoffs again, letting her eyes flutter shut and her breathing even out. There’s nothing to be worried about. George is...it will be fine. At least for the night. She has to believe that or she’s liable to go insane. 

“I don’t think anyone else knows,” Mary Margaret continues, pressing forward in a conversation Emma wishes they’d never begun. She glares at the mirror. That doesn’t do much to help. “I mean, aside from--”  
  
“--You and Ruby.”  
  
“Well, Ruby has an extra sense about these things.”

“Gods, Mary Margaret!” 

Emma’s cheeks flame with a blush that’s not entirely unexpected, not after _years_ and _quests_ and that word never fails to make her laugh, Killian’s stare turning amused when the sound bubbles out of her. It makes his lips twitch and his eyebrows shift and, more often than not, he tugs her forward, letting her head burrow against the crook of his neck until she feels like she's trying to press the sound into his skin so he’ll remember it when he’s gone. 

She’s a pessimist and the complete opposite. It’s confusing, even to her. Especially to her. 

“And David,” Mary Margaret adds lightly, a pinch to Emma’s arm when she jumps again. “Seriously, _sit still_ ––and Elsa did see the two of you once,” she squeezes one eye shut, mouth twisted in something that might be concentration, “that must have been more than two years ago now and--”  
  
“--Two years,” Emma balks, voice rising on every letter. 

Mary Margaret hums. And shrugs. And twists Emma’s hair without much concern to the state of her scalp. “At least. It wasn’t that long after you got him the commission.”

Emma’s eyes are going to fall out. That will also likely make it very hard to dance.  
  
“Do you know everything?” she demands, and she swears Mary Margaret’s eyes get brighter. 

“Well, you’re not very good at keeping a secret. Also you used my bird. I’m not sure where you thought you were being deceptive.”

“There’s no law against friendship.”

Mary Margaret laughs. Loudly. It’s honestly almost insulting. “No, there’s not, that’s true,” she agrees. “And there isn’t a law about falling in love with one of the kingdom’s most eligible and desirable young officers.”

“No one’s said anything about that.”

Mary Margaret doesn’t laugh that time. Her eyes widen instead, a genuine surprise that may actually be more insulting than the laugh. Emma’s going to have reapply the color to her lips. She keeps biting them. “Oh, you’re very bad at lying to me, Emma, but you’re even worse at lying to yourself,” Mary Margaret whispers. 

“I--what does Elsa think she saw?”  
  
“Years ago?” Emma nods, a mistake because another pin finds its way against her skin and she’s grateful for her magic if only because it means she’ll be able to undo all of this easier. “I think it may have been the first time he came back. They’d gone to…”  
  
“Camelot,” Emma whispers, and she knows she’s digging herself further into this conversational hole. “They’d gone to Camelot.”  
  
“Ah, yes. She’d been there as well, if you remember. At the docks.” Emma rolls her eyes, but Mary Margaret is in her element now and the maids have probably given up on waiting to be allowed back in the room. “And the ship docked, a glorious return, pomp and circumstance and all of those things that inspire morale and--”  
  
“--You realize this is starting to sound a little technical,” Emma cuts in, lifting her eyebrows in something she hopes is a scathing judgment. “Where do you think you learned those terms?”

“We’re not talking about that.”  
  
“Oh, but I would love to.”  
  
“I’m going to magic these pins so you won’t be able to ever get them out!”

“That’s a very strange threat.”  
  
“A fact,” Mary Margaret corrects, leaning around Emma to grab the small crown on the vanity. She waves her hand, a soft flare of light that’s almost comforting in the way Mary Margaret’s smile is comforting, and impossibly _knowing_ , and the jewels don’t really change, but they seem to brighten slightly. “Anyway,” she mumbles. “The ceremony was over and you were nowhere to be seen. Happens quite frequently when the Lieutenant is concerned.”  
  
Emma lifts her eyebrows.

“Elsa was looking for you, to get back here at the same time--make sure George didn’t suspect anything and she said she turned the corner to find you and the previously discussed Lieutenant occupying the same few inches of space, with him--and these are her words by the way, staring at you as if it was the only thing guiding him home. There was a light joke as well and possibly something about the sun, but David always said it should be a star for a sailor and--what?”

She swears her heart has stopped. Or disappeared entirely. It’s as if her chest is an empty chasm, a rush of emotion moving to fill it that’s entirely fear and slightly unfounded suspicions and she wishes she knew what George was doing every day. 

He won’t be at the ball. She knows it. 

“Emma,” Mary Margaret says, fingers wrapping around the curve of her shoulder. “That’s not--I really don’t think George knows anything and even if he did, I doubt--”  
  
“--No, something is going on,” Emma interrupts. She jerks her head up, threatening the well-placed accoutrements and the pins and her magic is close to boiling over. 

She grits her teeth, tensing her jaw to try and contain it and they need to be better. They need to...she has no idea. That’s disappointing. And frustrating. And Emma barely hears Mary Margaret the first time. 

It takes her a moment to process the words, not quite a question, but a proclamation and--

“You should tell him,” Mary Margaret repeats, staring at Emma’s reflection in the mirror like it's the easiest thing in the entire world. 

It probably should be. 

Emma shakes her head – but the objection refuses to be voiced and the bundle of _everything_ in the back of her throat is far too large. It blocks everything, oxygen failing to get to her lungs and the emptiness in her chest only seems to grow, like a shadow stretching across everything and everyone and she can’t remember what the word _wonderful_ means. 

“He knows anyway, Emma,” Mary Margaret adds, a certainty that refuses any argument as well. “And that’s not--it would be worth it. For you.”  
  
“For me?”  
  
“For everyone. That’s...isn’t that the point? Believing in even the possibility of a happy ending is a very powerful thing.”  
  
“Magical, even,” Emma mumbles, drawing a quiet laugh out of Mary Margaret. She doesn’t mean to sigh. “Can I ask you a question? Well, two questions?”  
  
“You could ask me three.”  
  
“I’m not sure I have that many, honestly. I just...the first time I met Killian, my magic was--it was out of control and--”  
  
“--I remember that day. David let you leave. He was terrified after. George wasn’t...well, he wasn’t happy that you were gone. I think there’s still a scar on David’s back. I couldn’t actually heal that one, it was…” She cuts herself off when she notices the look on Emma’s face, mouth hanging open and breathing turning ragged. “You didn’t know that,” Mary Margaret whispers and Emma shakes her head slowly. “He’d do it again, Emma. For you. He wouldn’t even think.”  
  
The shadow retreats slightly. 

“What’s your question?”  
  
Emma exhales, which is probably the worst mistake she’s made all night. “He found me,” she says, and she’s never told anyone that. “I was...I was terrified of what I could do or had done and I was trying to stop myself from--I don’t know, I suppose it felt like if I let it happen, the magic could have just...consumed me.”  
  
Mary Margaret tilts her head, a flicker of unease on the edge of her gaze. “And?”  
  
“And no one moved. I was there, on the edge of the dock and no one followed me. Except him. He just walked forward and I--I think he can feel my magic.”  
  
Mary Margaret’s right knee buckles, hands flying to the back of the chair Emma’s considering taking up residence in to try and steady herself. “Honestly? Has he said that?”  
  
“Not in...no, it’s just a thought.”  
  
“You don’t want to ask.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
“Please, don’t insult me like that,” Mary Margaret laughs, moving to perch on the edge of the vanity. She nearly knocks the empty bowl over. “He does. I know it.”  
  
“Is that so?” Mary Margaret nods emphatically, crossing her arms lightly as if that will make her more of an authority figure. “You’re going to wrinkle your dress,” Emma points out, and she can’t help the smile when Mary Margaret rolls her whole head in response. 

“You’ve got to believe, Emma. That’s...that’s the whole point.”  
  
“Of?”  
  
“Everything.”  
  
It really is unfair, everything she’s putting her lungs through. Emma’s laugh is breathier than she wants though, a shake to it that might just be the audible sound of hope and how much she goddamn wants and--

“He can’t,” Mary Margaret says, answering a question Emma hasn’t actually asked yet. “David, I mean. It’s...that is so rare. That kind of magic, it could change the world.”  
  
“And you’re sure your magic isn’t mind reading?”  
  
“Just when it comes to you.”  
  
Emma scoffs, lips twisted in thought and the lingering fear that George is doing something. “He really can’t? David? That’s--really?”  
  
“I wouldn’t lie to you, Emma,” Mary Margaret laughs, but there’s a bit of disappointment there too and she’s got to ask him. Even if it’s terrifying. 

“I know you wouldn’t.”  
  
“Good. Now tell me what else you’re thinking.”  
  
“You’re getting awfully demanding in your mind reading, your highness.”  
  
Mary Margaret throws her whole head back when she laughs, the turn of the rather ostentatious door handle at the other side of the room squeaking when Ruby walks in. “Are you two not ready yet?” Ruby demands, her own gown a deep shade of red that makes Emma’s lips quirk. “Don’t,” she warns. “This was not my choice. Plus, you look far more regal than I ever could.”

‘It seems almost heavy-handed, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Shall I repeat myself?”  
  
“Unnecessary,” Emma says, a quick inhale and unfinished conversation and her own gown is red, long sleeves and full skirt and she’s only a little hopeful her head won’t ache because of all the pins. She genuinely despises wearing a crown. 

That also feels a little heavy-handed. 

Ruby laughs, eyes flitting towards Mary Margaret and maybe they should have been better at being just a bit more covert. It wasn’t---there wasn’t enough time, though, just stolen moments and far too many eyes when the moments couldn’t be theirs and--

“Is he there?”  
  
“Who?” Ruby asks. “Killian?”  
  
“We’ve done this part already,” Mary Margaret mutters, widening her eyes when Ruby clicks her tongue. “You mean George, don't you?”  
  
Ruby lets out a low whistle, lips forming an almost perfect ‘o’ that makes Emma’s breath catch and her magic pulse and she can hear the music from the hall already. They’ll have to be announced soon. 

She nods. “What do you think he’s doing? It’s got to be--the Dark One must be gone. He has to. He would have done something by now if he existed.”

Neither Ruby nor Mary Margaret answer. That’s not the response she was hoping for. Strictly speaking, Emma isn’t sure what response she wanted, but it wasn’t that. 

“George is up to something,” Emma continues, ignoring the less-than-friendly knock on the door. The music is getting louder. “I know it. And I--well, I don’t know what it is, but everything has changed and--”  
  
“--That isn’t a bad thing,” Mary Margaret reasons. “If George wants to hole himself up with his books and musty papers, let him. We’ve...the people trust us. They believe in the family and the voyages that we’re--”  
  
“--You mean that the brothers Jones are taking,” Ruby interrupts. “Emma, listen to me. George is...he’s a mad man. He’s old and greedy and he got what he wanted. He got the protection he needed, didn’t he? He got you and you got more control of your magic than any of us could have ever imagined. Mary Margaret is right. Let him hide away in there. Let him read what he wants and never come out. We’re better off without him, don’t you think?”  
  
Emma nods. “Of course I do, I just--it doesn’t make sense. Why he would want all of us for a fight that never actually happened? Where is this Dark One? And what is George looking for? Still. He’s had us for years.”  
  
“Have you ever considered he may have gone crazy?”  
  
“How?”

Ruby waves her hands through the air, glancing over her shoulder when the trumpets start to blare and the whole thing is even more ostentatious than the door handle. “The man collected us, Emma. He waited and he pulled people from their homes and their families and he made us into...exactly what he wanted, only to realize that what he thought he was waiting for wasn’t looming in the darkness the way he always believed. That’s more than a little embarrassing for a man whose people already despised him, don’t you think?”  
  
She shakes her head. And she doesn’t know _how_ she knows Ruby is wrong, just that she is, a conviction that settles in the base of her feet and grounds her and the trumpets are so annoying.

“Your highness,” a voice calls behind the door, quick and demanding and there are expectations to live up to. Even if George isn’t the one issuing them. “They’re waiting for you.”

“It’s ok to believe, Emma,” Mary Margaret says softly. 

Emma isn’t sure that’s true. She worries it’s only setting her up for disappointment. And she’s even less sure what will happen if she has to face that disappointment. 

The next knock makes all three of them jump. 

“Alright, alright,” Emma says, a response to the man in the hall and the slightly nervous expression on Mary Margaret’s face. “Let’s go.”

* * *

This is not her first ball. This is not her first gown. Or the first fanfare that has played upon her entrance. And it never matters. 

Because it never seems to get easier for Emma, a fluttering her stomach that threatens to claw its way up the back of her throat and fly out her mouth if she’s not careful, magic rushing through her in defense of the pomp and the circumstance. 

The whole thing is absurd, but she supposes there are rules and she does her best to push her fears regarding George to the back of her mind when she stands at the top of the stairs, Mary Margaret and Regina on either side of her. 

There are lights everywhere – candles and candelabras, chandeliers with more light reflecting off more gold and every head turns their direction when they’re announced, a sea of color and shine and Emma can’t find him. Her eyes scan the crowd, moving from jacket to uniform and back again, bouncing between gowns and tiaras and she refuses to acknowledge the way her heart plummets into her stomach. That’s ridiculous. Nothing has happened. 

Someone would have told her. 

They were horrible at covert. 

“Where were you?” Regina sneers, Mary Margaret waving her off with a rather pitiful attempt at a smile and her eyes keep darting towards Emma. Who, in turn, barely notices. 

Her head is on a swivel, a rushing in her ears that she suspects feels a bit like drowning and is entirely too dramatic. She clenches her jaw, biting down on the side of her tongue. 

It doesn’t help. 

She steps down the stairs with care, trying to keep her chin tilted up and her gaze from landing on anyone in particular – memories of instructions and rules and none of that works either, but then there’s a hand reaching for her and her heart flies back to where it’s supposed to be and--

“Your highness,” Liam says softly, flipping his wrist so his fingers curl up invitingly. Emma hates how wide her eyes go. 

“Captain.”  
  
“I’m afraid my brother’s been detained with the ship for a little while, it’s...well, I hope to prove a worthy substitute for at least a few dances.”

Emma’s smile is easy, glancing at the fingers that flutter slightly now. “That’s a generous offer, but I wasn’t looking for you brother.”  
  
“Of course not, your highness. But my offer does still stand.”  
  
“Rather pushy, aren’t you?”  
  
“I’d like to see it as determined,” Liam amends, wrapping his hand lightly around Emma’s and they’re already moving, falling into rhythm with the others around them. She can hear Mary Margaret laughing somewhere. No one loves balls more than Mary Margaret. “Something I think my brother and I share.”

Emma doesn’t respond. She doesn’t trust herself to. Her magic does..something. 

“My brother does care for you quite a bit, your highness,” Liam continues, and maybe months at sea have made him unreceptive to conversational cues. 

Emma nods. It’s not dignified. It’s not particularly royal. She swears her crown is getting tighter. “I care for Lieutenant Jones as well,” she says, an admission that she hopes she won’t regret. “After everything you both have done for Misthaven and--”  
  
“--Emma, we both know that you got him this commission. Let’s not lie to each other.”

They weren’t ever doing much more than swaying, so Emma isn’t sure if they genuinely stop – but her shoe comes dangerously close to stepping on Liam’s and this isn’t the first time they’ve spoken. There have been moments – passing nods and gracious smiles, a member of the royal family and a devoted officer – but they’ve never had much more...no discussions, no mention of what he’d done or the magic they both know Killian doesn’t have. 

“I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, Liam,” she hisses, eyes going thin enough that it’s difficult to make out all the medals on his chest. 

She wonders how he can stand up with so many hanging there. 

Liam sighs, a quick hand moving over his face and the fingers that had been so quick to reach towards Emma pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m not suggesting anything, Emma,” he says, barely loud enough to hear over whatever the last song has turned into. “I’m telling you.”

She has to take a deep breath to keep the magic from moving out of her, pushing almost immediately to the tips of her fingers and the back of her heels and Emma twists her neck to restrain the rush of everything. 

Liam’s face loses the bit of color it had. 

“You’re overstepping, Captain.”  
  
He shakes his head, gaze turning imploring and it’s more memories and déjà vu she absolutely despises and Emma needs to get out of there. Her magic is louder than the music. “I’m not,” Liam promises. “I’m--he loves you, Emma. More than...more than anything else and I know George hasn’t figured it out yet, but…”

She’s going to curse him. She needs him to finish his sentences, but it appears Liam is having his own challenges with breathing and retaining consciousness. 

Emma licks her lips. She should have magiced the color there. “There’s nothing to figure out,” she says, the lie tasting bitter and hanging in the air like dead weight. 

“You should practice that a bit more, princess.”  
  
“And you should learn when to speak in turn, Captain,” she hisses. ‘Where are you going with this, exactly?”

Liam shakes his head, a heavy exhale. “George is looking for something. And I don’t--well, I’m not sure what I think about it, but I have to believe it, Emma.”  
  
“Believe what?”  
  
“That George is doing what’s right. That the weapon we’ve been searching for is something that will protect us from the Dark One and--”  
  
“--That’s me,” Emma says, struggling to keep her voice low. Liam glares at her. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. That’s--that was your doing, Liam. To bring me here and bring me to George. You made sure I fit into the prophecy and nothing has happened.”  
  
“That was for your own good.”  
  
She isn’t quite as as tall as him – even with the heels that are beginning to scratch at the back of her feet, but Emma’s arm swings through the air and, eventually, she’ll learn how to control her instincts. As it is, her hand collides with Liam’s cheek, an almost satisfying slap of skin on skin and his quick hitch of breath. 

He stumbles slightly, staring at Emma with barely contained fear. “That wasn’t even magic,” she sneers. “And I know why you did it, Liam. This whole time, I’ve--I’d do it too. I wouldn’t think, I’d…” Emma sighs, shaking her head like that will get rid of the tears that appear in the corner of her eyes. “Whatever George is doing, whatever you think he’s plotting or scheming, I...I agree with you.”  
  
Liam’s mouth twitches. “There’s more to this than we thought, Emma. It’s twisting and turning and I can’t...none of it makes sense, not yet at least, but I have to trust that the system I’ve always believed will protect us will continue to do that.”  
  
“That’s naive.”  
  
“Maybe,” he admits. “But I’d do it for Killian. Every time. And I know you would too. That’s why I’m asking you to be careful. Please.”

“What is it you’re suggesting, exactly?”  
  
“Honestly?”  
  
“Seems foolish to do anything else, don’t you think?”  
  
Liam nods, something that feels far too much like disappointment in the movement. “Yes, it is, but...I can’t disobey orders, your highness. And I won’t. Because it will put everything my brother and I have worked for at risk.”  
  
“You are going in circles.”  
  
“I’m not,” Liam sighs. He huffs, a quick click of his teeth “I’m telling you to be careful about how much you let George know. He’ll use that. Against both you and Killian. You’re right, nothing has happened with the Dark One yet, but George is taking steps still. Aside from you and aside from the prophecy. There are pieces moving here we didn’t even know were on the board, Emma.”

She doesn’t answer, again, and it’s a little petulant, _again_ , but Emma refuses to think about that for too long, turning on her heels instead, and leaving Captain Liam Jones behind without a second glance. She weaves her way through the crowd, twisting around couples and smiles and there’s so much... _everything_. 

So, in the grand scheme of all that everything, reaching out to grab a bottle of wine on her rather quick exit from the ballroom seems almost reasonable. Almost. And the air is crisp when she finally makes it to the garden, a destination she didn’t realize she was heading for until she’s already standing in the middle of it, shadows falling across the ground under her feet and the color of the flowers around her isn’t quite as bright as it usually is. 

She also refuses to think about that.

She may be the most immature Savior in the history of any realm. That doesn’t bode very well for the future of this realm. 

Emma sighs, licking her lips and waving her hand, a soft pop from the bottle when the cork moves. The liquid tickles the back of her throat when she takes a drink – no glass in sight and a distinct lack of pomp or circumstance. 

She can still hear the music, dim notes and the quiet shuffle of people who don’t have the fate of the world resting squarely on their shoulders or the distinct inability of hiding a relationship that is far bigger than the word suggests. Emma should tell him. She should--  
  
“I believe it’s often advisable for the crown princess to have a partner when she starts dancing.”

Emma spins, dropping the bottle, and she’s only a little embarrassed by how loudly her breath catches. He’s in uniform – sword belt hanging around his waist, with crisp folds and stark-colored fabric that makes the blue in his eyes look that much sharper, but that one bit of hair falls close to his brows when he tilts his head slightly and Emma takes a bit of pride in whatever his expression does as soon as he looks at her. 

“Your highness,” Killian mutters, reaching forward to catch her hand and Emma rolls her eyes when his lips ghost over her knuckles. “Sorry I’m late.”  
  
“And not nearly as funny as you think you are.”  
  
He hums, mouth still pressed against her skin. “It’s not exactly an overwhelming show of emotion at my gallant return, love.”  
  
“Presumptuous too.”  
  
“Hopeful. There’s a difference.”  
  
Emma nods, mouth twisted into something she hopes is vaguely teasing and a little sarcastic and the puddle at her feet is getting progressively larger. She’s genuinely not sure which one of them moves first – and it genuinely does not matter – but Emma tilts her head up and Killian ducks his head down and it’s all lips and tongues and mouths, heady and needy and probably some other word that rhymes because prophecy always seems to rhyme and this all has always felt a little prophetic. 

In a way that simply felt normal. 

She inhales sharply, a quick breath through her nose that seems to help her surge further up, heels popping out of her shoes and both arms slung around Killian’s neck. He chuckles at the enthusiasm and Emma will probably make fun of him for that at some point, but in the moment she’s simply concerned with touching as much of him as she possibly can and working on getting that one, specific noise she can sometimes cause when she scratches her nails through his hair just right and--

He groans. Into her mouth. 

Emma laughs. 

“Swan,” Killian chides, but there’s not much frustration in the sound of her own name. He’s smiling again. Or still. The second one is a little nicer. 

“Here,” Emma mumbles, and it’s her turn to make ridiculous noises as soon as Killian pulls away from her. She’s not entirely prepared for the force of his stare though, intent and _longing_ and the thumb that traces across the curve of her cheek feels like it’s leaving sparks in its wake. 

That’s probably her magic. 

They’ll get to that part eventually. 

Probably after the kissing. 

“Aye,” Killian says, an agreement that also sounds a bit like wonder and Emma’s magic jumps again. So do his eyebrows. “I’m glad. I--”  
  
“--I missed you,” she cuts in, far too loud and far too quickly and the whole thing dissolves into kissing again almost immediately. 

Oxygen, however, is a requirement – even for those with magical abilities – and Emma’s shoulders are shaking by the time they pull apart, Killian’s forehead resting on hers while his fingers trace aimless patterns on her back. “If I say good, is that going to inspire another rather pointed opinion from you?”  
  
“Were you hoping I missed you, Lieutenant?”  
  
“Only so much as I missed you, love,” he says, not quite able to keep a straight face and Emma might actually gag. “You’re ruining the moment, Swan.”  
  
“Ah, right, right, I’m sorry.”

She laughs at the scandalized look on his face – all wide eyes and a slightly scrunched nose and he’s so much older than he was when he followed her to the docks, but sometimes, _sometimes_ , when he comes back to her and there’s _this_ , the moments and the feelings, Emma wonders if any time has passed at all and if they’re not exactly the same people they were then. A scared little girl with far too much power and the boy who believed in her.  
  
More than anything. 

She hopes he knows how much she believes right back. 

More than anything. 

Gods, she should tell him. 

“I really am sorry I’m late,” Killian says, and his fingers must have minds of their own. Emma’s back arches slightly, an immediate response that leaves her cursing her dress and her corset and they’ll have to return to the ball for at least a few moments. “We docked and the men always seem to forget everything there is to be done as soon as they can see a port and Liam had to get back to the castle and--”  
  
“--Wait, Liam had to get back to the castle?”  
  
Killian’s eyes narrow at the tone of Emma’s voice and he’s always been impossibly good at reading her. It’s frustrating. It’s not. “Aye,” he nods. “We got word from--what’s that one underling’s name?”  
  
“I don’t think he’s an underling.”

“Yes, he is. Always bowing and scraping and he’d clean George’s boots with his tongue if he was asked.”  
  
“A lovely picture,” Emma says. Her legs are starting to ache, still pressed up on her toes, but Killian’s eyes flutter shut when she moves her fingers through his hair and she hadn’t been lying. She’d missed him. “And his name is August. I can’t believe you don’t remember that.”  
  
“What a ridiculous name.”  
  
“You’re getting distracted.”  
  
“Aye, did I mention you look incredible?”  
  
Emma’s teeth find her lower lip without much thought to the destruction she’s wreaking on the color there, and Killian’s smile shifts slightly, a smirk and a flash of blue and she shakes her head. “Not as such, no,” she whispers. “Although I’d imagine the rather illicit kissing was a fairly good start.”  
  
“Start?”  
  
“Were you not intending to dance with me, Lieutenant?”  
  
He kisses her – not quite as determined as it had been a few moments before, softer, calmer, like he’s taking care on each movement and committing them to memory. “Were you drinking wine?”

“Distracted,” she repeats, tugging lightly on the lapel of his jacket. “Liam met with George?”  
  
“Aye. Not for long, I don’t think, the old man rarely comes out of that room anymore, but the underling claimed it was important and instructions for the next voyage and--”  
  
Emma falls back on her heels. Her right foot misses her shoe entirely, landing on grass and dirt, distinctly _un-royal_ and entirely disappointed, the shadow on the edge of her vision flickering back to life. “There’s time still, Swan,” Killian says, but Emma hears the words for what they are, an empty promise and stolen moments. “Weeks from now.”  
  
“Where?” Killian makes a noise in the back of his throat, confusion in the pinch between his eyebrows. “Where?” Emma says again. “Did George say where? And why?”  
  
“Have you ever heard of Neverland?”  
  
She can’t fall anymore. Her feet are already on the ground and the arm wrapped tightly around her waist makes it all but impossible for Emma to actually move, but her heart doesn’t care and feels as if it drops directly into the puddle. 

Where it promptly drowns. 

In wine. And absolute, all-encompassing fear. 

“What could George want in Neverland?” Emma breathes. “That’s...those stories are terrible, an island filled with more terrors than one place is supposed to have and--”  
  
“--It will be fine, Emma.”

“Don’t lie like that. Not to me. Please.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
She glares. “Does David know?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Killian says, a quiet admission it’s clear he doesn’t want to make. “This isn’t--George didn’t give him specifics, just that there’s a weapon there he believes could defeat the Dark One and…”

He stops when he notices Emma shaking her head, breathing as heavily as if she’d just run out of the ballroom again. “How did you know I was out here?” she asks. 

“I couldn’t find you. I was...I was trying to get here as quickly as I could and you weren’t here.”  
  
“Were you worried, Lieutenant?”  
  
Flirting probably shouldn’t have much place in this conversation, but Emma needs something _normal_ and that’s normal and easy and she loves him with every single inch of her and every bit of magic that rushes through her veins. Currently. She doesn’t want him to leave. 

She made sure he could. 

“I’ve spent a considerable amount of time over the last few months considering what color gown you’d wear, your highness.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And it’s better,” he promises, lips dragging across her jaw and close to the shell of her ear, a nip of teeth that makes her breath catch again. “Gods, Emma, I--”

“--Hold on to me,” Emma whispers. She’s only done it a few times, and the prospect of closing her eyes in the garden and opening them in her bedroom is more than a little daunting, but Emma can feel the heat of her magic pulse through her and they leave a broken bottle in their wake. 

Killian gasps as soon as they land, fingers turning vice-like as if that’ll help remind him that it happened and--

Emma’s not entirely prepared for whatever noise he makes, some kind of growl that just sounds a bit like the audible version of want and the color of her gown, but everything seems to settle as soon as his mouth crashes against hers. The crown falls from her hair, a soft thump on plush carpet and all those fine things Liam promised years ago, but Emma has never quite gotten used to them and she knows she leaves a scuff mark on the wall when she kicks her shoes off. 

She laughs at the sound, Killian’s lips quirking up against hers. “You’re going to give a man a complex if you keep laughing while I’m trying to seduce you, love.”  
  
“Oh, is that what you’re doing?”  
  
“Was that not obvious?” She laughs again. Free and easy, worries hanging in the back of her brain, but just a bit quieter than normal. Her magic is far too loud anyway. “Swan,” Killian mutters, the word sounding half like a reprimand and half like a question. His fingers are moving again, drifting over the laces on the back of her dress and the curve of her shoulder, thumb brushing against the back of her wrist. 

Emma’s far too preoccupied with her own movements to respond immediately, finding the buckle of his sword belt and the hem of his shirt, pushing his jacket on the floor with an enthusiasm that doesn’t really surprise her that much. 

He smirks.  
  
“You are frustrating,” she mumbles, but it’s another decidedly uninsulting insult and Killian arches an eyebrow. 

“That so?”  
  
“Yes. Why are there so many parts to this uniform?”

“I believe you’re the only one who could do anything about that, love.”  
  
“I’ll issue a proclamation.”  
  
He bites lightly at her lip, drawing some kind of sound out of Emma that she knows she’s never made before. But then her dress is just a hint looser and her lungs appreciate that for the half a moment she gives them to recover. They appreciate it less when she moves again, another kiss and whatever he’s learned to do with his tongue in the last few years, quick swipes that make the fire in the pit of Emma’s stomach turn into some kind of all encompassing inferno of emotion and magic and she knows those two things are tied together. 

Intrinsically. 

“Take this off,” she mutters, tugging at the shirt again. 

“Aye aye, ma’am.”

She swats at his arm, but he catches her around the wrist, eyeing her with amusement and she can’t think straight when he kisses her hand. The shirt gets thrown somewhere. 

And, honestly, she almost should have expected it, the words falling out of her like bubbles out of a broken bottle, determined to be spoken and heard and felt. In the very center of everything. “I love you,” Emma whispers, one shoulder out of her dress and strands of hair falling across her forehead and the force of Killian’s answering smile will be branded on every inch of her memory forever. 

No matter what. She’s certain. 

He doesn’t respond immediately, but that might have to do with her fingers dragging across the expanse of skin in front of her and it’s a strange moment to feel powerful. The moment does not care. The moment lingers and settles and her magic roars in what might actually be victory. 

“I love you too.”

* * *

She gets out of her dress eventually, stumbling towards a bed that’s always felt far too big, but, with Killian’s chest under her and his fingers tracing across the curve of her hip, feels like home in a way that Emma hopes isn’t quite that sentimental. 

She’s still a bit of a pessimist. 

And she has no idea what time it is, but it must be hours later, expectations and royal requirements forgotten in _I love you_ mumbled over and over, pressed into every bit of skin his lips could find. She lets her eyes close, an easy comfort to it all that also feels like home. 

And them. Collectively. 

As if two people could, simply, be home. 

Emma’s mind wanders, jumping from thought to thought and flashing from hope to maybe, a foggy picture of a future that suddenly feels a bit possible. 

“You’re thinking so loudly, I’m a little surprised the walls haven’t started to rattle as well,” Kilian murmurs, and Emma doesn’t open her eyes. She knows he’s smiling anyway. 

“And you’re rather pleased with yourself.”  
  
“Am I?” She hums, letting her cheek move against him when she nods. His chest shifts under her, a shaky inhale that makes Emma laugh and smile and she keeps doing both of those things. Her magic does...something. 

It doesn’t rattle the walls, but it might move its way through her, a low rumble of power that rushes through her and Killian’s fingers still. 

“How did you know where I was?” Emma asks again. “Honestly?”  
  
“Do you think I wasn’t telling you the truth?”

“I think you’re deflecting something and I…” She lifts her head up, met with half a smile and a bit of trust and she’s known the whole time. “Can you feel it? Me, I mean?”  
  
“You?”  
  
“You’re being difficult on purpose,” Emma accuses, but she can see the muscles in Killian’s throat shift when he swallows. He takes another deep breath. 

“I don’t--that shouldn’t be possible, Emma. And it’s--”  
  
“--Finish your sentence, please.”

He chuckles softly, sliding further down the small mountain of pillows on her bed, and the kiss that lands on her temple is almost tender, a reverence to it that she can’t quite wrap her mind around. As if she deserves that. He starts pulling the pins out of her hair, measured movements and even breathing and Emma counts the seconds. 

She gets to fourteen before he answers. 

“The very first time I saw you, I knew exactly who you were,” Killian starts. “And I knew what you were capable of. I’d heard the prophecy, knew what Liam had done, knew how it had...it tormented him, Swan. I know why he did it too. To protect me and everything that I’m not.”  
  
“That’s not true.”  
  
“You’re interrupting the story, love,” he says, another quiet laugh that sounds a little hollow. “If George had known, he would have taken Liam too and I would have been alone. And it’s not--part of me won’t ever forgive him for doing that to you, but...I saw you and it was--” He exhales, letting his lips move across her forehead and Emma tries not to move. “Liam rarely used his magic when we were growing up, too afraid of what it would attract. I only really remember it happening a few times, but once it had snowed and I was freezing. He tried to help me warm up.”  
  
“Did it work?”  
  
“Aye, it did. And it was the safest I’ve ever felt. Like I was home and protected, but that feeling went away eventually. It didn’t linger in the very center of me, didn’t take up root or grow and--Emma, I saw you and it felt like that. Like home and a warmth I’ve never been able to shake and I wouldn’t want to. It’s like…”  
  
“Everything,” Emma breathes, and Kilian nods slowly. 

“Aye, like absolutely everything.”

They’re quiet for a moment, both of them content to loiter in admissions and emotions and--"How many pins are in your hair?” Killian asks, Emma’s smile stretching across her face so quickly the muscles in her cheeks ache. 

“Far too many. You don’t have to do that, you know. I can…” She waves a hand, but Killian is already shaking his head and she doesn’t want him to anyway.

“Will you mercilessly mock me if I tell you that I’d like to?”  
  
“Yes, absolutely.”  
  
“Aye, I figured,” he nods, one side of his mouth tugged up. The blue in his eyes is distracting. “I love you, have I mentioned that?”  
  
“A few times.”  
  
“Ah, not nearly enough.”  
  
“Sentimental.”  
  
“Also true.”  
  
“Not even an argument, huh?” Emma asks, shifting so she can drag her hand up the side of his ribs, magic pulsing under her. She fully expects the look she gets. And she’s not surprised how good they are at this. It’s still nice to have it confirmed though.

“You'll find, love,’ Killian mutters, turning so he’s on his side and there’s far too much of him pressed against Emma, “that you’ll rarely get an argument out of me when there’s so much else here to distract me.”  
  
They didn’t have to worry about her thoughts and the walls. Her laugh is loud enough to do damage to the entire castle. “Impertinent, Lieutenant.”  
  
“And you’re doing that on purpose.”  
  
“Maybe.”

His eyebrows jump, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth when he moves again, pressing Emma’s shoulders into the pillows and the blankets and she can’t come up with many words after that. 

* * *

Ruby finds them. Groaning and cursing, a hand over her eyes when she swings open the door. 

“Gods help us,” she sighs, and Emma pinches Killian’s side when he has the gall to laugh. “Your brother is looking for you, Lieutenant,” Ruby continues. “I think he waited what he believed an appropriate amount of time, but is now considering alerting the guard to your absence.”  
  
“Idiot,” Killian grumbles. Emma laughs that time. 

Ruby still hasn’t moved her hand. 

“Yes, something like that,” she agrees. “And I’d suggest moving rather quickly because I’ve also seen David asking Mary Margaret where the princess disappeared to last night.”

Emma rolls her eyes towards the ceiling. “You’re no help at all.”  
  
“That’s ungrateful. I haven’t even gotten to my slightly overprotective speech.”  
  
“Ruby!”

She doesn’t move her hand. Her smile is obvious anyway. “Have you two stopped beating around the metaphorical bushes, then? I’d assume so since I nearly tripped over a large sword when I walked in, but--”  
  
“--Yes,” Emma cuts in sharply, and Killian’s gaze snaps to hers. “I’m...well, this is good. We’re happy. Right?”  
  
“Were you looking for confirmation, darling?” he asks, Ruby not doing much to quiet her sigh. 

“Good,” she calls. “I’m leaving now, but I’d give you approximately five minutes before the heroic Captain stars to take drastic steps.”

The door slams behind her. And Emma spends at least two minutes kissing Killian, mind latching onto the word _darling_ with an almost alarming grip, but then he’s gone and the door closes again and she tries not to worry. 

* * *

It doesn’t work. 

They sail out less than a week later. 

“I love you,” she says, tucked into a corner of the castle with one hand on his jacket and the other curled around the belt loop of his pants. 

He kisses away the tears that fall on her cheeks. 

“Every single time, Emma.”

She nods, trying to feel confident and it will be fine. It has to be fine. 

* * *

It’s not fine. 

The bird that lands on Mary Margaret’s windowsill arrives a few weeks into autumn, leaves falling and endings everywhere Emma looks and--

“They were attacked,” Mary Margaret whispers, voice so quiet Emma doesn’t even demand how she can figure that out from a goddamn bird. She’s having trouble retaining consciousness. “It was...he says it was bad and he’s not--”  
  
“--Survivors, Mary Margaret,” Emma snaps. David appears to have turned into a statue in the far corner of the room. “Were there survivors?”  
  
“And who was it?” David adds. There goes the statue theory. 

Mary Margaret glances at the bird, soft chirps as it bounces on her arm. Emma counts seconds. She tries to breathe. Three in and three out. More seconds. More chirps. David moves, an arm wrapping around her shoulders and she doesn’t think before she turns into him. 

It takes forever. 

It’s not nearly long enough. 

“The Dark One,” Mary Margaret says, voice catching. David’s arm tightens. That’s probably for the best. Emma’s knees don’t seem all that interested in functioning anymore. “He--yes, yes, I know your name is Joshua--”  
  
“--Mary Margaret!” Emma’s voice jumps, and the bed frame behind her rattles ominously. As do the paintings on the wall and the sword hanging from David’s waist. 

She squeezes her eyes closed, nose scrunched tightly like that will keep the tears from spilling over and it doesn’t, but Emma’s whole body feels like it’s crumbling and the hand that lands on her cheek is soft. “Emma,” Mary Margaret says, soft and imploring. “Emma, look at me. It’s--Joshua…”  
  
“It’s a bird, Mary Margaret.”  
  
“Yes, and he’s gone now, but he brought the message here because the rumors were swirling. It’s been...it must have happened weeks ago, Emma. Red skies in the morning and a fight and…” Emma opens her eyes. She’ll regret that, eventually. Mary Margaret is crying. “The Dark One found them in Neverland. They were looking for something, but I don’t know if they ever found it. It...I don’t think it mattered to the Dark One anyway. He just--”

She doesn’t really hear the rest of the words, Mary Margaret’s voice going fuzzy and Emma’s vision going spotty, but one word hangs in front of her as clearly as if it’s been painted there. 

“Dead,” Mary Margaret says. “The Dark One killed them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of story left. If you're reading it, I think you're top-notch. Thanks for being excellent, internet. 
> 
> (Also, timeline-wise. So, Emma was thirteen and Killian was sixteen when they met on the docks. He was twenty-one when he left, that's make her eighteen. It's been years since then and the reputation of the brothers Jones grew. So, let's say, Emma is twenty-one here and Killian twenty-four. Someday I'll write more about them being very bad at sneaking out. There will be kissing.)
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're dow


	9. Chapter 9

Emma’s eyes flit up when the door opens, soft footfalls moving towards her and every single step reeks of disappointment. And failure. As if that’s something that’s even remotely possible.

She watches David move, measured steps and gaze cast down at boots covered in dust and she can’t remember the last time he slept. She can’t remember the last time she slept. It seems like an impossibility anyhow, every time her eyes close all she can see is what she doesn’t know, possibilities and each idea she comes up with is worse than the last, explosions and blood and a darkness that creeps into her soul and hangs there, as if it’s determined to stretch her out until Emma snaps in half. 

She feels dangerously close in the moment. 

It’s been...she doesn’t know. She genuinely has no concept of time anymore, only slightly aware of its passage and how little they’ve managed to accomplish since that bird flew away and everything else fell apart. 

There’s been no word. No confirmation. No denial. Nothing. Just an endless expanse of silence and confusion and George won’t talk. There’s no explanation. 

It’s just...nothing. 

And no one. 

She’s never felt more alone in her life. 

“Anything?” Regina asks sharply, and Emma only just notices how tense her shoulders are. They’re impossibly straight, chin jutted out slightly like that will make her more regal or something equally absurd and at some point, Emma is sure, they decided to put Regina in charge. She may have just decided, honestly. 

Because Mary Margaret’s been sneaking into town with Ruby, trying to find answers and make sure people haven’t grown any wiser to the chaos that’s looming just behind the castle walls, and David’s been staging daily interrogations and Emma is...not exactly up to the task. 

She licks her lips. 

And David shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, dragging an obviously exhausted hand over his face. “Absolutely nothing. Less than nothing.”  
  
“How can there be less than nothing?” Regina sighs. 

“If you were there, you’d understand. George--I don’t think he’s in his right mind anymore, Regina. He’s babbling and muttering under his breath. He is terrified of something.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“If I knew, I would tell you.”

“Some captain of the guard you’re turning out to be.”

“He looks awful,” David continues, and Emma isn’t sure why they’re doing this without Mary Margaret and Ruby. He’s just going to have to repeat himself. “I don’t think he’s eaten in days. August said he barely stands up, stuck to that chair like he’s been cursed there.”  
  
“That’s an interesting option.”  
  
“Regina!”  
  
She shrugs, a quick raise of her hands. “I’m merely suggesting different avenues. Your interrogation techniques do leave quite a bit to be desired.”  
  
“We’re not going to burn him in his chair if that’s what you're suggesting.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Then…”  
  
“Take his heart.”

Emma’s jaw drops – and it really shouldn’t. Not after everything she’s known about Regina and she must be a little scared too because that feels like a hint of desperation and a line they absolutely, positively cannot come back from. 

David pales. “No,” he says, quick and sharp and it sounds as regal as he’s ever been. 

“Why not?” Regina challenges. “It’ll be quick. It doesn’t have to be painful. I go with you, I take the heart, tell him to actually explain what has been going on in this kingdom for the last twenty years and then we save the day. It’s really rather simple if you think about it.”  
  
“We’re not doing that.”  
  
“You’re being self righteous.”  
  
David scowls, but he doesn’t argue, gaze darting towards Emma where she’s perched on the arm of the throne Regina has claimed as hers. She doesn’t understand why they keep meeting in this room – a _throne room_ for God's sake – far too large and the walls are far too stark, barely any light finding its way through the windows. Emma keeps blinking to try and adjust her eyes. 

It never works. 

And her magic hasn’t quite failed, per se, but it appears to be sputtering, little flickers that don’t amount to much, as if the fire that had been in the very center of her has been doused and desperately clinging to a few coals. 

She doesn’t look away from David.  
  
“You said something,” Emma whispers, her voice scratching at the back of her throat. She doesn’t talk much in the throne room. “Why not...someone?”  
  
David tilts his head. “Someone? As in a person? Who could George be afraid of?”  
  
“The Dark One does immediately spring to mind.”  
  
“Was that a joke? It sounded a little bit like you were making jokes.”  
  
“Sarcasm,” Regina murmurs, tugging on the side of Emma’s shirt and she’s resolutely refused to wear dresses or corsets or anything except far-too-large shirts and pants in the last few days. It’s some type of misplaced attempt at regaining any sense of control. “That was sarcasm. And you need to eat something. You look as bad as I’m sure George does.”  
  
“You’re simply rife with opinions aren’t you, your majesty?”  
  
Regina smiles – and it’s almost strange, but it’s also almost comforting and she is right. They need to figure out what’s going on. They can’t keep running a kingdom they don’t understand. “I’m pointing things out,” Regina mutters. “Observations, if you will.”

“Ah, of course.”  
  
“When did you eat last, Emma?”  
  
“I genuinely don’t know.”  
  
“I’m going to tell Mary Margaret on you.”  
  
“Mary Margaret is not my mother.”

David sighs again. “Are you two about quite finished? Because I think we need to come up with some kind of plan.”  
  
“I did that already,” Regina says calmly, standing up when the door at the other end of the hall swings open again. “And you were rather quick to object.”

“What plan?” Ruby asks, a bit out of breath and there are snowflakes hanging off the hood of her coat. Mary Margaret’s not far behind, color in her cheeks that Emma knows is the result of running and cold winds and she refuses to acknowledge how cold those winds have been. 

Like they’re some sort of sign. 

“Her Majesty here, would like to rip George’s heart out of his chest to make him tell us what he’s been up to since he first started barricading himself in that room,” David says, flashing a glare Regina’s direction. Her eyebrows jump. 

Ruby lets out a low whistle, huffing out a breath and slumping in front of the throne Regina just moved out of. “Is that even possible?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter!”  
  
Regina’s eyes flash again, fingers fluttering in a way that likely shouldn’t be as threatening as it is. “Self righteous,” she repeats. “And a little pig-headed, honestly.”  
  
“Insult me all you want, Regina, it’s not going to make a difference. We’re doing this without turning to dark magic and--”  
  
“--You didn’t answer my question, David,” Emma interrupts. Her voice rises of its own accord, a rush of emotion and magic she hadn’t expected, but is long overdue. She’s angry. She’s terrified. She’s so goddamn disappointed she is positive she is drowning in it. 

She’s going to figure out what is going on.

David’s head snaps towards her, brows pulled low. “About?”

“Do you not think it’s possible or even probable that George is terrified of the Dark One, finally, showing up to do whatever the hell it is the Dark One is fated to do?”

“That’s more sarcasm,” Regina points out lightly, and Emma rolls her eyes when she hears Ruby mumble _at least she’s talking_ under her breath. 

“David,” Emma presses. She can see a muscle in his temple jump. “That has to be it. It’s the only--alright, what do we know already? George sent the Jewel of the Realm to Neverland--”  
  
“--Neverland,” Mary Margaret echoes, and the word shakes when she practically shouts it. “What would they be doing in Neverland?”  
  
“They were looking for a weapon.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“To fight the Dark One,” Emma says, and it’s getting more and more uncomfortable to sit in this position. David is getting paler by the moment. “That’s--Liam told me he wanted to believe that it was for something good. It was...you want to talk about self righteous.”  
  
Regina’s lips twitch, more out of place sarcasm and Emma’s whole body aches. That’s the first time she’s said Liam’s name. “That doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

“I...well, he said he thought George was looking for something. Or working with pieces none of us realized we were playing with and--”  
  
“--That’s a convoluted metaphor,” Ruby mumbles, making a face when Mary Margaret clicks her tongue at the interruption. 

“Liam thought George was looking for something besides you?” Mary Margaret asks, and Emma isn’t surprised she’s gotten to the heart of it so quickly. She nods, chewing on the side of her tongue. Regina has started pacing at some point. There’s a ball of fire in her hand. “But that’s...why would he need that?”

“And,” David adds, “wasn’t the whole point of all this to fight the Dark One to begin with? That was the prophecy, right? That’s why...that’s why you’re here, Emma.”  
  
Regina scoffs and Mary Margaret’s gasps. Ruby curses. Loudly. “Wow,” she breathes. “That’s an absolutely horrible thing to say.”

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” David agrees, scuffing the toe of his boat into a loose stone under his foot. “Emma--I’m, that’s not what I meant.”  
  
She hums, twisting a strand of hair around her finger and she knows he means it. “I’ve got absolutely no idea why George would need something else. Or why he’d have to go to Neverland to get it. But Killian said…oh, damn.”

Her breath catches. Her eyes cross. The spots on the edge of her vision aren’t entirely unexpected, but they make her stomach heave and the blood that pools in her mouth doesn’t taste right. It’s bitter and ashy and Emma squeezes her eyes closed to try and make the walls she’s certain are moving towards her don’t actually crush her. 

It feels like falling off the edge of something. And landing on exceptionally sharp rocks. She can’t inhale deeply enough, every shift of her chest a battle against the weight that seems to have taken up residence there and every answer only sparks more questions and she honestly can’t remember when she ate last. 

She hasn’t found a need. 

Gods, that’s depressing. He’d hate that. He’d steal her toffee and make her eat it. In front of him to prove that she had.

“Emma, Emma, c’mon, look at me, it’s ok.” Mary Margaret’s crouched in front of her, a move that can’t possibly be comfortable on her knees, but her fingers are soft and sure when they brush across Emma’s cheeks and her smile reaches her eyes. “It’s ok. It’s going to be ok.”  
  
“You can’t possibly know that.”  
  
“I have to believe that.”  
  
“Or we’re all going to go insane,” Ruby mutters, flashing Emma her own slightly wolfish grin. “Also, for what it’s worth, it doesn’t seem like anyone in town has really noticed much.”  
  
Regina scoffs. “Small miracles.”

“There is more though, so…”  
  
“Of course there is,” Emma grumbles, tongue darting between suddenly dry lips and she’s fairly certain the moment has passed. Her lungs still feel a bit pinched though, and she’s not all that confident about the prospect of sleep any time soon, but she doesn’t pull away from Mary Margaret either and she has to take her victories where she can get them. 

Her fingers didn’t spark. 

That might have been because her magic didn’t do anything. 

“Well,” Regina snaps impatiently, “what’s the latest catastrophe we have to deal with?”

“It’s not so much a catastrophe as a rumor,” Mary Margaret says. “Ruby is right, the people in town don’t seem to realize what’s been going on with George and we’ve done a fairly good job of keeping the news about--” Her eyes dart up to Emma, a quick kiss pressed to her cheek. “--Well, it doesn’t seem like many people know, so they’re not really worried about that. They are a little worried about the ship that docked earlier today.”

David’s hand lands on his sword hilt. Emma and Ruby sigh in tandem. “What kind of ship?” 

“Not one of ours,” Mary Margaret whispers. “That’s, well, that’s the rumor. That this ship came from...no one knows, really. And it’s been destroying naval vessels in its wake with--”

“--The words _alarming rate_ were used several times,” Ruby says. 

David is going to rip the skin from his face if he rubs his hand across it anymore. It’s a disgusting thought. Emma’s not surprised she came up with it. “Pirates,” she says, Ruby humming in agreement. “Gods, the last thing we need to deal with is pirates.”  
  
“As far as anyone on the docks knows they’ve been focused on getting back here. The naval destruction seems to only happen when we’ve tried to block their return to Misthaven.”  
  
“Return? As in they’re from here?”

Ruby shrugs. “I’ve got no idea at all, but that’s the rumor.”  
  
“The pirates aren’t important,” Regina announces, spinning quickly enough that the ends of her gown flutter dramatically at her heels. David gapes at her. “They’re not. The important thing is figuring out what has George so scared. Mary Margaret is right. He had Emma. He had the Savior, right here. We were all brought here to defend the kingdom against the Dark One, but something has changed and if...well if both Liam and Killian realized that, then it’s up to us to figure it out as well. Otherwise we’re doing a disservice to their memory.”

Emma blinks. Twice. Three times. Her gaze darts to Mary Margaret, surprise coloring her features. “That may be the single most human thing you’ve ever said, your majesty,” Emma mutters, something that almost resembles a laugh in her voice. 

Regina purses her lips. “None of you are nearly as clever as you think you are with this _your majesty_ business.”

“I think it’s hysterical,” Ruby argues. “Don’t you, o ye captain of the guard?”

David doesn’t move his hand off his sword. “I think her majesty brings up a very good point about figuring out what George is doing, but I’m still not all that interested in yanking out hearts.”

“Foolish,” Regina says. 

Emma takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Alright, alright, let’s put a moratorium on the heart yanking for a little while. We’ll...well, we’ll cross that bridge if we have to. For right now, we need to make sure that the rumors stay silent and we get ready for the Dark One because...well, that’s the only answer for why George would be acting like this. He changed something, I know it, and we’re all going to have to face that.”  
  
There’s a heavy silence as soon as she closes her mouth, tight-lips and slightly nervous stares. Emma counts her inhales again. And her exhales. They only shake a little bit. 

So, victories or whatever. 

Mary Margaret is the first to answer. Another victory. “Ok,” she nods, brushing away a strand of hair from Emma’s forehead. “Maybe we should try and get some sleep.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Sleep, Emma, it’s something you’ve heard of, I know it.”  
  
Emma’s laugh is sarcastic at best and wholly mean at worst, but it flies out of her and Mary Margaret’s expression doesn’t change. “That was almost scathing,” Emma mutters, Ruby’s soft chuckle bouncing off the walls and the dingy windows. 

“It won’t do any good to run ourselves ragged. We won’t be ready if something does go wrong then. Sleep and we’ll deal with George tomorrow morning. He’s not going anywhere.”  
  
“That’s optimistic,” Regina says. The fire is dancing between her fingers now, a soft glow that casts a shadow across her cheek. 

Mary Margaret nods again. “Yes, it is. And it will keep being that way because we’re still together and we’re going to figure this out. Like you said, they both deserve that from us.”

Emma doesn’t say anything – and it’s a little childish and still a little depressing, but she does manage to get her lips to turn up and the walk back to her rooms doesn’t feel as if she’s walking to some sort of metaphorical gallows. 

He’d hate that too. He’d tell her it wasn’t even clever and do something ridiculous with his eyebrows, fingers drifting over her side like they were always drawn there. 

“Tomorrow,” she mutters to herself because she’s alone and this is probably a precursor to insanity. “Just...it’s got to be tomorrow.”

Emma’s head falls back against her door as soon as she closes it, like it’s too heavy to hold up, and she wishes the whiplash of emotions would stop. It’s exhausting. And draining. And the magic that rushes from the very top of her head down to the boots she hasn’t bothered to take off in _days_ threatens to make her fall over. It’s sudden, a burst of light behind her eyes as soon as she blinks and she barely realizes she’s moving before there are arms around her waist and a hand flat on her back. 

Her feet leave the floor, mumbled words that might be her name and something that sounds a bit like _darling_ repeated several times. She doesn’t dare open her eyes, positive this is a dream or an allusion and she’s going to stay in it for as long as she possibly can because the breath she can feel against her neck is warm and _alive_ and Emma buries her head in his shoulder, fingers carding through hair that wasn’t nearly that long when he left. 

It makes him groan. 

And Emma’s eyes fly open, body going rigid because this isn’t a dream and this isn’t an allusion and--"Swan,” Killian whispers, strangled and hopeful and it’s an incredibly strange combination. 

He doesn’t try and kiss her. She doesn’t try and kiss him. It’d be impossible anyway, still hanging in mid-air with toes skimming the ground and lungs that feel as if they’re disintegrating in her chest. He says her name again, the word turning into a plea, as if he’s making sure this is real as well. 

The hand on her back moves, tracing up her spine and the thin fabric of her shirt. It ghosts over the back of her neck, pushing her hair away so he can get to skin and the touch he leaves isn’t entirely familiar. It’s a bit too rough, a hint too desperate, likely leaving marks in his wake and Emma can’t do anything except tighten her arms. 

“Are you alright?” Killian breathes, and Emma doesn’t think she imagines the moisture on his cheek when he moves against her. “Emma, love, you’ve got to--”  
  
She hits him. 

And, really, it’s not the best response. It’s the worst response, honestly. It’s God awful and terrible and if she were to relive the moment, Emma would never do that again, but as it is, in the moment, her hand flies up and her fist lands on Killian’s shoulder and he stumbles slightly. 

He doesn’t put her back on the ground. 

“No, no, no, no,” Emma sputters. “That’s--you don’t...not now, not after everything. I--Gods, I can’t believe you’re here.”  
  
“Emma…”  
  
She hits him again. It’s absurd. And he’s better prepared for it that time, shifting her weight to one arm in a move that probably would have been impressive if her mind didn’t feel as if it were melting out of her ears. He catches her around the wrist, eyeing her with half a smile and the smirk that stretches across his face makes Emma briefly consider kicking him. 

Or kissing him. 

She may do both at the same time. 

“Swan,” Killian says softly, that same reverence she’d only ever heard from him. “Swan, if you could stop attacking me for a moment, that would--”  
  
The kissing thing wins out. 

She moves, working another groan out of Killian in the process, and only one of her feet gets back to the ground, but Emma’s far too preoccupied with getting her mouth on his and it feels like coming home. It feels like coming home to a place she’d forgotten she’d been, a warmth to it that’s easy and simple and _necessary_ , some kind of emotional foundation that evens it all out and makes everything else feel like window dressing. 

Emma opens her mouth when his tongue moves, pressing past her lips and the nails that scratch lightly at the back of her head make her magic jump. Killian’s breath hitches, another rock of his hips against hers. She has no idea how she stays balanced, back arching and hands moving, tracing like they’re doing inventory. 

His mouth drops, and she can feel him smile against her jaw when she whines at that, but she’s lived the last few weeks believing he was _dead_ , so Emma does not care what sound she makes. She makes another one when he nips at the shell of her ear.  
  
“Are you really here?” he asks, soft enough that it’s difficult to hear over her own ragged breathing and absolutely out of control magic.  
  
“Are you?”  
  
“Aye, I am I...Gods.” Emma feels the shiver that runs through him, as if the crack is almost visible, and she doesn’t stop moving her hands. She traces over the strained tendons in his neck and the clench of his jaw, running her fingers through his hair and gripping his arm like she’s trying to make sure he doesn’t leave again. 

“Hey, hey, you’ve got to breathe, alright,” Emma whispers. “Just keep breathing. Slowly. Through your nose.” He doesn’t answer, she didn’t really expect him to, and she has to focus her magic into her fingertips. He reacts to that. Figures. “Killian,” she continues, tracing out patterns on his shirt and she only just realizes the fabric is different under her fingers. Not a uniform. And not entirely intact, what feels like more than a few holes and--"Oh, hells.”

He laughs. “I did wonder when you’d get there.”  
  
“I was admittedly a little stunned to see you. I--” She hates that she starts to cry. It feels juvenile and immature and several other words a Savior who’s been desperately trying to figure out the great mystery of her kingdom shouldn’t be. 

Killian leans back, gaze going soft and touch going even softer, a brush of his thumb over her cheek. “Every single time, Swan. Every single time.”

“No, that’s not--you were dead. The bird told us you were dead!”  
  
“The bird?”  
  
“Joshua!”  
  
“Joshua the bird.”  
  
“I’m going to curse you,” she warns, and he actually chuckles. She tries to bite his lip when he kisses her again. 

“I’m not dead, love,” Killian says. He finally lets her back onto her feet, wincing when his arms move back to his side and Emma mutters _that was your own fault_. Gods, she’s missed him. “Although it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

“How?”  
  
“How did I try not to die?”  
  
Emma throws her whole head back when she yells – frustration and fury and some other word that starts with ‘f’ that is very likely fear because her lungs have never recovered and it can’t be good for her heart to be beating that fast. She flexes her fingers at her side. “Swan,” Killian mutters, back in her space in a moment with both hands wrapped around her wrist, “I’m sorry Swan, that wasn’t--what do you think happened?”  
  
“I just told you,” she hisses, and this is not going the right way at all. “You were dead. The bird said the Dark One attacked and you were--”  
  
“--He did. Attack, I mean, but he was very intent on letting me go.”  
  
“What, why?”  
  
“I have no idea,” Killian admits. His thumb brushes over the back of her wrist. “We got there and it was...everything was so dark and we found a plant, something that was said to be able to kill anyone. But then it all fell apart and we were on the ship and no one even saw him, Swan. He appeared and he was--” He shakes his head, memories playing out on his face as clearly as if they were Emma’s as well. “He wasn’t human, love. He was...everything was wrong, twisted even. And he kept laughing. As if he was amused we were even trying.”

“To kill him?”  
  
“I’d imagine so, aye.”  
  
“But…” Emma starts, shaking her head to clear out what feels like several years of cobwebs. “So, presumably that weapon wouldn’t have worked? Why did George send you there then? And why did the Dark One even care? It just...he should be coming here. Attacking--”  
  
“--You?”  
  
“You say that like it’s not true.”  
  
Killian’s eyes narrow. “I say that like I’ll be damned if it happens.”  
  
“You were dead until you materialized in my rooms! You don’t get to make sweeping threats.”  
  
“It’s not a threat. And I hardly materialized, love. I climbed, it did take some time.”

Emma scoffs, but he’s still trying to use that smirk and it might be more effective now. “I thought you were dead,” she whispers, and she should stop repeating it. It makes it more difficult to believe it isn’t true. 

“I’m not, Swan. He...he showed up on the ship, said it was a fool’s errand to betray him--”  
  
"--Betray him.”  
  
Killian’s eyes widen. “Aye, that’s been driving me insane for weeks. He said George would be dealt with in his own time, but destroying his plan would have to do. Only he, well, he looked at me. And it was as if he’d been charged with facing the hounds of hell. He looked terrified. He started mumbling under his breath and everything, somehow, got even darker and he--” His shoulders shift, staring at Emma as if she’s the only thing that makes sense. His lips find the back of her wrist as soon as her hand lands on his cheek. There's more stubble there than she’s used to. “He said it made sense. Why George would do this now, as soon as he saw me. And he said he couldn't do anything to me yet, but he could hurt me, make me regret what I’d done and...he’s dead, Swan. Liam. The Dark One killed him.”  
  
It takes a moment for the words to sink in – replacing questions and uncertainties with answers and absolutes and Emma’s not sure if she falls forward or Killian simply pulls her there, but her feet slide across the floor and the tears that land on her shirt aren't hers. His body shakes with the force of them, gripping her shirt tightly enough that it threatens to tear in half. 

And it all makes sense. The shirt and the ship and the rumors in town. A band of pirates taking down naval vessels preventing them from returning to Misthaven. 

From returning to her. 

“I love you,” she whispers, just enough to calm him for a moment. “And I don’t hate the lack of uniform.”

Killian chuckles, face still pressed into the crook of her neck. “Aye, I was worried about that. I don’t--I couldn’t fly under that flag anymore, Swan. It’s--”  
  
“--I know, I know. And I wouldn’t ask you to. I just...I think we need to go talk to Regina.”

* * *

"What?” Regina snaps, swinging open her door as soon as Emma knocks and Killian is still cursing even the suggestion of blinking themselves there. “Holy--”

“--We might not have time for that,” Emma interrupts, and Regina nods slowly. Her eyes don't leave Killian. 

“Bloody hell, Swan, you’ve got to warn a man before you do that!’

Regina’s eyebrows arch. “What did you do?”  
  
“Teleported us here,” Emma answers. “I wasn’t kidding about not having time for this.”  
  
“You can do that?”  
  
“Can’t you?”  
  
“Well, yes, but you’re magic has been…” Regina waves her hands in the air, fluttering her fingers in Killian’s vaguely pale direction. “He’s really not dead.”  
  
“Really not dead,” he growls. “Now if you’d be so kind as to stop asking unimportant questions we may be able to get some more answers, your majesty.”  
  
“Gods, not you too!”  
  
“Very chatty down by the docks. Lots of talk about the high queen in the tower.”  
  
Regina groans, Killian glaring in response, but Emma shifts in between them and her magic is still...magic. And then some. “The Dark One did attack, but he didn’t kill the entire crew of the Jewel--”  
  
“--Jolly Roger now,” Killian amends, and Emma has _no idea_ what noise Regina makes at that. “If we’re just being technical.”  
  
“Anyway,” Emma continues, “he was on the ship, told Killian that George sent them on a voyage that was a betrayal and then everything went to shit.”  
  
“That’s eloquent, Swan.”  
  
“Stop that. Regina, this is--something is happening and I know David doesn’t want to do the heart thing, but will...if you do it, will we get the truth?”  
  
Regina nods slowly. “Absolute.”  
  
“Let’s go then.”

The hall that George’s rooms occupy smells horrible as soon as they turn the corner. It’s stale air and the scent of slightly rotten meat and there’s a thin sheen of dust on everything. As if the only people who have set foot back there are David and August. 

Emma can see David’s boot tracks.

Killian’s fingers lace through hers. 

“I need both of you to let me handle this,” Regina says, standing in front of a half-opened door with an imperious look on her face. “This isn’t easy magic and if what David says is true, and George is raving, then it might not be pretty either. Jones you can ask questions once I get control, but don’t try anything idiotic, understood?”  
  
“What could he possibly do?” Emma asks. 

Regina ignores her. “Jones, understood?” He nods. “Ok, good. Let’s do this.”

The room is, somehow, even worse. The curtains aren't hung properly anymore, trays of full plates strewn on every available surface. There are books everywhere, some with their bindings broken and it’s obvious more than a few of them have been thrown away in anger. 

It smells like sweat and disappointment, an emptiness that creeps into Emma. Killian squeezes her hand. 

George is asleep. He’s slumped in the corner of a bed with blankets hanging off the side and mouth hanging open and it takes Regina all of two seconds to cross the space, thrust her arm out and plunge it in his chest. 

There’s a definite squelch to it. 

Emma’s free hand flies to her mouth, covering up a gasp, but Killian mutters something that sounds a lot like _bloody_ _hell_ and Regina glares at both of them. “That’s not helping,” she grunts, yanking her hand back and the heart in her palm is not the red Emma expects it to be. There are swirls of darkness in it, bits that look almost rotten. That feels too on the nose. 

Georges jolts awake, eyes flying open as his hands scramble for purchase on sheets he’s already kicked off. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks, but the words are barely more than an exhale and his cheeks look impossibly hollow. 

Mary Margaret would try and get him to eat too. 

“You’re going to listen to me right now,” Regina says, bypassing any further introductions. “Because I don't just have the upper hand, I’ve got the whole deck of cards. So--” She gives his heart a squeeze, making George groan and the beads of sweat drip down his forehead. “You’re going to tell Lieutenant--is it still Lieutenant now?”  
  
Killian’s eyes dart Emma’s direction, the tips of his ears going red. “Captain now, your majesty. If you’d like to get technical.”

Regina hums, a smile dancing on the corner of her lips. “Naturally. Well, pirate captain Killian Jones, who would have thought. He’s got some questions for you George, and the Savior and I would both love to know what exactly it is you’ve been doing down here for so long.”

“There’s no point,” George says, and it’s obvious that every letter is a struggle. “If that magicless mutt is still alive--” He chuckles when he notices the look on Emma’s face. “Oh, you think I didn’t realize exactly what was going on my dear? I’ve known the whole time and I’d thank you for the knowledge if it weren’t going to get me killed.”

“That seems to be the fate of all of us at this point,” Regina sneers. “So you’ve got one chance at redemption, George. Explain what’s going on. Why send the whatever the name of the ship is to Neverland? You’ve got the Savior here. Why do you need another weapon?”

George presses his lips together, tight enough that it’s difficult to see them. That changes when Regina’s grip on his heart does, nails digging into...whatever it is hearts are made of. He’s sweating almost profusely now, breathing loud enough that it’s difficult to hear the approaching footsteps and--  
  
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”  
  
David’s sword is drawn, Mary Margaret behind him and she doesn’t try to mask her gasp. Ruby will be very disappointed she missed this. “Killian,” Mary Margaret mutters, rocking forward like she’s nervous crossing the threshold will disrupt the moment or wake her from a dream. 

He nods. “My lady.”  
  
“Regina,” David growls, and her eyes are going to get stuck mid roll. “We talked about this. This is...we can’t be these people.”  
  
“I hate to object, but I think our great king became one of these people first,” Killian says. “I want answers, your highness and I’m not going to let you stop me.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“Aye, it’s very much so.”  
  
David lifts his eyebrows, a challenge in the flip of his wrist. Killian’s hand is still tangled with Emma’s, enough that he can’t get to his sword fast enough, and she’s magical anyway. She steps between them, a quick jerk of her hand that makes David drop his sword with a yelp. 

It’s steaming when it lands on the floor.  
  
“Impressive,” Regina muses. “You think that has to do with the pirate explicitly or are you just incredibly powerful?”  
  
“We’re back to pointed opinions, Regina,” Emma says.  
  
Killian clicks his tongue. “And pirate? Honestly, that’s what we’re going with?”  
  
“What would you like?” Regina asks. “Romantic consort? Simply consort? That would require some more work though and official things and--” She sighs when George continues to moan, a reproachful look that adds some misplaced levity to the situation. Emma's magic is still roaring in her ears. “Do you have something to add, George?”  
  
“True love,” he mumbles. “That’s--I think it’s true love, that’s why everything changed.”

Emma freezes. She wishes Mary Margaret would learn to control her reactions. They’re impossibly loud in a room that is, now, impossibly quiet, a _what_ and a gasp and Regina’s eyes turn appraising when they move to Emma.  
  
“That’s not...that’s not possible,” she says. “True love? A child’s story.”

George shakes his head. At least tries. “It’s not. It’s rare, but--”  
  
“--He can feel your magic, Emma,” Mary Margaret cuts in, giving up a secret that might not be a secret at the worst possible time. Regina nearly drops the goddamn heart.  
  
“What?” she barks. “Since when?”  
  
“The very start,” Killian answers, words apparently easier for him than Emma. “I saw her on the docks and I knew who she was and I could--I could feel it. I always have.”

“Even when you’re gone?”  
  
“Especially then.”  
  
“So, Elsa wasn’t really wrong,” David says. “It was like some kind of guiding light.”  
  
Killian hums. “Something like that.”  
  
“Well,” Regina continues, “that’s news, isn’t it? And our fearless sovereign suspected this now, did he?”

George glares at her. He’s still sweating, a small stain forming on the pillows he’s slumped against. “As soon as she wanted to get him that commission. There'd been talk for years before that--the princess sneaking out and spending time with the deckhand and--”  
  
“--Wasn’t even a deckhand,” Killian murmurs against Emma’s hair. Her laugh is absurd. He kisses her. That’s less absurd. 

“They were spending time together,” George continues, “hours and days and I started growing suspicious. I knew our Savior was getting control of her magic. She hadn’t when we first brought her here. It was...violent, prone to outbursts and unexpected threats, but then this magicless child showed up and changed everything. So when David suggested that we make that Jones boy’s brother part of the Navy, I’ll admit I was not interested.”  
  
“Until?” Regina asks.  
  
“Until August told me that it was very likely the Savior’s doing. She wanted him protected. She wanted him to feel important. She didn’t want him pitied by the rest of the kingdom.”

Emma’s jaw lands on the floor. It feels that way at least, a rush of air falling out of her that rivals Mary Margaret’s over the top reactions. Killian’s staring at her, eyes wide with disbelief and absolute belief, another strange combination she absolutely hates.  
  
“Killian, that’s not--” she starts, but George isn’t done. 

“I gave him the commission because I realized something. The princess loved Lieutenant Jones and, as I said, I had my suspicions. So I continued watching and I waited and I bided my time to make my play.”  
  
Killian’s eyes are thin enough Emma can’t see the blue there anymore. He won’t meet her gaze. “And what was the play? Because the Dark One claims you betrayed him.”  
  
“Yes, I did. I didn’t expect to see you alive again though.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I assumed if the Dark One discovered what I’d been doing he would have killed you very quickly. That’s another mark in my true love column though.”  
  
“Explain that,” Killian seethes, and Regina tuts softly when George doesn’t answer quickly enough. “How could you betray someone you were fighting against?”  
  
“Because I wasn’t,” George answers simply, and the force of everyone’s magic shakes the bedposts and rattles the curtains and a rather large block of the ceiling falls dangerously close to Regina's right foot. 

Killian doesn’t move. “You were collecting them,” he says, and it’s not a question. One side of George’s mouth tugs up. “All of them. All that magic. You weren’t looking for the Savior yourself, you were looking for the Savior to hand her over to the Dark One.”

George’s smile is feral, slow and measured and Emma can see every single one of his teeth. That lasts, approximately, two seconds before he’s grunting and groaning again, Regina’s expression going greedy as if each sound she elicits makes up for whatever George has done.

“That’s right,” George admits. “It’s been a partnership I’ve...well, let’s say the Dark One can be rather persuasive. Tell me something, Regina, my dear, did you think it was simply happenstance that we found you as soon as you left the Dark One?”

Her lips pop, an audible swallow when George chuckles. “Oh, you walked right back to him and you didn’t even realize. He knew you weren’t the Savior, but he wasn’t about to let that magic go unchecked. No, all of you...you’ve all been carefully selected and groomed to work under the realm of the Dark One as soon as the Savior was ready for him.”  
  
“But I was supposed to defeat the Dark One,” Emma argues. “That was...the prophecy said that I was going to be the light in the dark.”  
  
“And you are my dear. But you’re also the spark, the key to magic. Don’t you think the Dark One would be interested in understanding that? Growing his power, even?”  
  
“So what changed? Why didn’t you ever give me up?”  
  
“Well, at first you were uncontrollable. We knew you were powerful, but you weren’t showing signs of true magic. Until, of course, that day. We’ve already discussed that though.”  
  
“Get to the point,” Regina fumes, Mary Margaret moving forward to loosen her grip on George’s heart. 

“I already have, Regina. True Love. It’s the most powerful magic in the world, enough that it could defy prophecy. It could control everything. And it’s there. It’s obvious, can’t you see it?”  
  
Regina licks her lips, jerking her head towards Emma and Killian. He hasn’t looked at her in what’s felt like a small eternity, but he’s never actually let go of her hand either and there’s probably a metaphor there. 

Emma’s too tired to try and decipher it. 

“It’s obvious,” George repeats. “So I decided to take steps, look for a weapon that I could use against the Dark One to keep the Savior for myself.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“An incredibly detailed plan. World control, domination, an army of magic at my disposal.”  
  
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Mary Margaret cuts in. “If you wanted to harness the power of their True Love, wouldn’t you be worried about something happening to Killian?”  
  
George makes a dismissive noise. “I considered it, decided that it had already grown enough and was willing to chance it.”  
  
“Is that even how True Love works?” David asks. “Wouldn’t you need to...both have it?”

“I don’t know and it didn’t really matter to me. Admittedly, I also didn’t expect the Dark One to discover what I was doing so quickly, but I assume that’s why he’ll be the one running the world from now on.”

“Please,” Regina scoffs.

“It’s true, my dear. If the dreamshade couldn’t kill him--did you use it on him, my boy?”  
  
Killian’s eyes go dark, hand flexing at his side and Emma turns before she considers all the reasons she shouldn’t. “Hey, hey,” she breathes, pushing up on her toes to force herself into his eye line. “At me. Look at me. This is...right at me, Killian. It’s ok. You’re ok.”  
  
He nods slowly, eyes falling closed as his forehead rests on hers. She feels his breathing even out, the steady rise and fall of his chest under her hand. “Did I say I love you back at some point?” he asks, Emma’s laugh falling out of her. 

“No, I don’t think so.”  
  
“Gods, that’s idiotic.”  
  
“It’s been a rather hectic night.”  
  
He chuckles, fingers dancing across the curve of her hip. “Idiotic,” he repeats. And the kiss isn’t quite that – there’s far too much going on for it to really be anything – but it still feels like home and that tongue thing is still ridiculous and Emma wants. With her whole soul. 

True love. 

_Every single time_. 

“Has it been like this the entire time?” David asks, presumably directing the question to Mary Margaret since she’s the one who nods. And smiles. 

“I’m very glad you aren’t dead, Killian,” she says. 

Emma feels his lips move. “Aye, me too.”

“Can we focus for a moment?” Regina sighs. “So, let me get this straight, George. You decide you want to keep the Savior and all her True Love magic for your greedy self and come up with some scheme to take out the Dark One. It obviously doesn’t work, the Dark One realizes you’ve betrayed him, kills the original Captain Jones--”  
  
“--That’s tactful, Regina,” Emma mutters.

“Anyway. The Dark One responds to your ridiculous plan, and you’re suggesting that he only killed the elder Jones because he didn’t want to disrupt the course of True Love?”  
  
George nods, opening his mouth, but Killian says something first. “He said it was payment,” he mutters. “That he couldn’t kill me, but that I had to pay for what I’d done. Then he killed my brother. Right in front of me.”

Emma doesn’t mean to sigh. Or cry. And after everything Liam did, she’s not sure how she feels, but she can hear the anguish in Killian’s voice and true love doesn’t really seem that far fetched. 

“He’ll be coming for you,” George says. “Both of you. True Love, plus your Savior magic could--it could raze mountains, alter the course of rivers, stage one-person sieges of every kingdom we’ve ever heard of. And now that the Dark One knows it’s here, he won’t rest until he’s got it. It will drive every action. Until he gets what he wants.”

“Well, that does answer some of our questions, doesn’t it?” Regina asks lightly. She’s gone very pale, though. 

David nods, sword back in his hand and he keeps shuffling closer to Mary Margaret. “So what do we do now?”

Regina considers it for a moment, a heart in one hand and a sudden ball of fire in the other. She twists her lips when she stares at George – and Emma’s only slightly concerned she’s actually going to set him on fire – moving her arm back out and pushing his heart into his chest again. 

That squelch is the worst sound in the world.  
  
“Now,” Regina answers, the flame in her hand blazing, “we get the kingdom ready for a fight.”

* * *

She wouldn’t say she _doesn’t_ let him out of her sight over the next few days of plotting and planning and something that may actually be chart-making, but then Emma would be lying and she assumes people who lie cannot defeat ultimate darkness. 

And Emma knows it’s coming. She knows the plot and the plan and the way Mary Margaret’s gaze falls to slightly twisted fingers whenever there’s a lull in the conversation. It’s doing a fairly good job of imprinting itself on Emma’s consciousness. She knows. She just doesn’t say anything. Because then she’ll have to lie about that too. 

It’s not even a week later – _again_ , and she can’t cope with the symmetry of it, despises it with the force of several suns and a variety of moons and every bit of magic she can muster – Killian’s sword propped up against the side of her bed, boots just a few feet away. 

“Did you talk to Regina?” he asks, standing much farther away than Emma wants him to. She’s gotten greedy like that over the last few days. 

She supposes it has to do with all the death hanging over her. 

“Did you?”  
  
“You’re asking questions you already know the answer to, Swan.”

Emma hums, swinging her legs up underneath her where she’s sitting in the middle of the bed. The small mountain of blankets around her suddenly feels a little suffocating, but that may just be the weight of her own knowledge and she wishes she’d stop thinking in metaphors. 

“It makes sense,” Killian says, rocking forward slightly. “I...well, I did talk to Regina, as I’m sure you know--” Emma resists the urge to stick her tongue out. “She and I spoke about it today and no one knows what George has done yet.”  
  
“That’s a good thing,” Emma points out. They’d come to that conclusion rather quickly – despite Mary Margaret’s objections regarding _the people_ – keeping George’s betrayal a secret so as not to cause even more alarm. The news of the Jones brothers had moved quickly enough as it was, a rumor they hadn’t been able to contain, particularly when the talk of the pirate ship docked just off the coast spread. 

Most of the town assumed the pirates had killed the Jones brothers. 

And Ruby had done her best to foster that belief, flitting from tavern to tavern and dark corner to even longer shadow, mumbling words and spreading gossip and Emma’s going to challenge Regina to some kind of magical duel. 

This is her fault. 

Because it does make sense. 

“I’m not disagreeing with you, love,” Killian murmurs, finally taking that step towards her and his hand is warm when it lands on her knee. “I’m just...if we’re going to figure out what the Dark One is doing then we need someone who isn’t--”  
  
“--Stuck here?”  
  
“That’s not what I said.”  
  
“Isn’t it though?” she challenges. She sits up straighter, moving quickly enough that his hand falls onto the blankets with a soft thump. “Someone’s going to realize that you’re you, you know that don’t you?”  
  
Killian nods, leaning into her space with that one strand of goddamn hair hanging over his forehead. He smirks at her. Emma scowls. “I do,” he nods. “I’m planning on it, in fact.”

“What? Are you insane?”  
  
“Not that I’m aware of, but that gets less and less certain every day.”  
  
“Why would you do that?” Emma demands, digging the tip of her finger into his chest. There’s a chain there, a light glinting off something she can’t quite make out when she’s so determined to glare at him for as long as possible. 

If she keeps doing that then he can’t possibly leave. He can’t announce he’s a goddamn pirate. 

Killian doesn’t blink, but his mouth twitches slightly, shifting his weight to graze his fingers over her arm. Her skin explodes into goosebumps, a chill shaking its way through her that doesn’t have anything to do with the changing seasons outside the window. 

“Don’t do that,” Emma mumbles, objecting to the press of his lips against the back of her palm. “It’s--you don’t get to do that.”  
  
“Kiss you?”  
  
“Play target practice. You're trying to draw the Dark One to you and that’s--”  
  
“--I can’t sit here, Emma,” Killian interrupts, and she knows. _She knows_. “I won’t. Not when I’ve got a ship and a whole crew of men who want nothing more than to figure out what the hell the bloody Dark One is doing and where he’s hiding and deliver him right back to you.”  
  
He says it with such intensity that it’s difficult to doubt, but that’s something Emma’s always been impossibly good at and she’s barely let him out of her sight all week. 

“You don’t know that will happen,” she whispers. “You don’t...you don’t have any magic.”  
  
“A fact I’m almost painfully aware of.” She scoffs, twisting her lip between her teeth, and the bed creaks when Killian sits next to her. “I’m not going to do anything foolish, Swan,” he says, more intensity and another promise Emma knows he can’t keep. “But everyone leaves a trail. No one can simply disappear into thin air and the dreamshade didn’t work, but maybe--”

“--And maybe the Dark One will just attack your ship. Again.”  
  
“He can’t kill me, Emma.”  
  
“That’s already foolish.”

“Hopeful,” he says, a flash of knowing smile. She does stick her tongue out that time. It gets him to laugh. “I have to go. I--come with me.”

Emma sighs, all exasperation and frustration and she wants to say yes. She doesn’t. “Killian…”

“Aye, I know. And I know you do too.”

She does. She knows and she understands and she _hates_ it, wants to stay greedy and selfish and hoard every single glance he casts her direction, every brush of his lips and the feel of him next to her when she wakes up, sure and steady and _alive_. 

Emma nods. 

“I know you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders, love, but you can trust me,” Killian says softly, but there’s a note of worry on the edge of his voice and if Emma knows this is their best option to figure out where the Dark One is, then she also knows that he hasn’t been able to shake George’s words. 

She tilts her head up, catching his lips with his and it’s not enough. It’s not guarantees and certainty, but it’s _them_ and that’s always been the case. “It was never pity,” Emma whispers. “Never. It was...I could only give that and it was--”  
  
“--I love you,” he cuts in, voice shifting again into something much more earnest.  
  
Emma pulls her hand up, brushing away that piece of hair. “Every single time.” Killian’s mouth tugs up, lips shifting against her skin and she actually yelps when he nips at the pulse hammering at her wrist. She’s positive his eyes actually spark. “I just,” she starts, “I’ve always trusted you, but I--”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I can’t lose you. Not now. Not...not after everything.”  
  
He doesn’t beam. That’s not the right word. It’s softer than that, not quite the sun, more like the moon, a little less blinding, but still bright, a rhythm to it that probably matches up with the tides or something. That may be the most absurd metaphor she’s come up with yet. 

And she’s honestly ready for the kiss – expects it, even – has gotten to the point of kissing Killian Jones that she’s fairly positive she’s experienced every kind, but that’s clearly a lie too and Emma’s never been happier to have been proven wrong. 

He seems to pour every emotion he has into the movement, hand coming up to cup her jaw and trace across her cheek, noses pressed together and mouths moving with something that feels almost like being branded.

“Here,” he mumbles, struggling to talk and move when Emma’s doing her best to keep his tongue in her mouth. “Swan, love--” The words dissolve into another round of kissing and what might actually be laughter, which only feels a little out of place, but Emma’s magic is _flying_ and she can’t think when Killian’s eyes go that color. “Emma, I need my hand.”  
  
She hums in confusion, blinking when Killian leans back. He tugs the chain off his neck, and her mouth goes dry when Emma realizes what’s hanging from it. 

A ring. 

Killian rolls eyes his eyes. “I’m not--that’s not what’s happening here, I’m not proposing, Swan.” Emma scrunches her nose. That makes him smile more. “When Liam first enlisted, he got this ring and he gave it to me when you got me my commission. Said it would be good luck or keep me safe when he wasn’t able to. I know it’s not why I’m still alive--that’s you, love, but it’d...well, it’d make me feel better if you had it. When I wasn’t here.”  
  
She licks her lips, a shaky hand reaching forward. Killian exhales as soon as the chain moves over her head, ring hanging across the front of her shirt and Emma grabs his hand on instinct. 

She’s surprised her magic hasn’t made the mirror on the other side of the room shatter.  
  
“Bad form to propose before being properly courted anyway,” Emma mumbles, and she’s sure she’ll think about Killian’s laugh on loop until he comes back. 

He nods, surging forward with more kisses and more promises and his hand lands on his ring. Her ring. Possibly theirs. 

Collectively. 

“At the very least it’s a reminder that you’ve got a piercing-eyed, smoldering pirate who loves you,” he mutters. 

“Is that so?”  
  
“Irrevocably.”  
  
Emma closes her eyes, letting the word sink into her and the magic thrumming through her. “I love you, but if you do anything stupid I’ll never forgive you.”  
  
He grins. “Aye, love. That’s fair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for reading. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	10. Chapter 10

“Emma!” 

She waves an impatient hand over her shoulder, not taking her eyes away from the map in front of her and they’re going to have to do something about the fortifications on that side of town because--"Emma,” Ruby snaps, yanking on the back of her shirt tightly enough that Emma feels nails through the fabric. 

“Gods,” she groans. “What could you possibly want that warrants ripping my skin off?”  
  
Ruby makes an unimpressed noise, David’s soft chuckle echoing off the otherwise silent walls of the room. Emma’s lost track of how long they’ve been in there – hours or, possibly, days, but she’s at least eating consistently again and Mary Margaret would likely have a conniption otherwise. And none of it seems to be making much of a difference. 

They’ve looked at maps. They’ve drawn their own charts. Mary Margaret has talked to every woodland creature who’ll agree to stand still long enough to have any sort of conversation. 

It hasn’t done them much good. 

The whispers started rather suddenly – Emma and Mary Margaret and Ruby taking turns sneaking into town with hoods pulled close to their cheeks and magic rushing in their veins and Emma’s gotten very good at figuring out who’s lying to them. The last one was the absolute truth. 

“It’s been getting more and more dangerous,” the woman had said, voice dropping low and eyes cast down towards Emma’s boots. “To be out here. People are starting to question, wonder about George and--that Jones boy, why he’d turn on us like that.”

Emma had nearly bit her tongue in half at that, a burst of anger that circled around her spine, twisting and tugging until she was certain it was actually cracking. “There have been rumors, ma’am, a whole group who are talking--telling us what you're doing up behind those walls.”

“And what are we doing?” Emma asked. 

“Waiting. Taking over. Making sure your magic is the only one in control.”

The words had made Emma’s whole body tense, jaw clenching down sharply enough that she was genuinely concerned about her tongue. She waved her hand, a quick spell that wasn’t particularly _good_ , but she couldn’t change anything and the woman hadn’t said anything else.

She hadn’t been lying. 

And Emma knows she’s right. There are murmurs and talk, quiet discussion of the royal family’s control and how it may be slipping because George still refuses to come out of his rooms, and the people in the town mutter about the growing legend of captain Killian Jones and his crew of respectable men turned pirates. Emma does her best to ignore that. 

Still, there’s been no sign of the Dark One or any type of magical _anything_ that might help Emma destroy him and she’s trying not to drift towards the precipice of desperate. 

It’s been months, the crunch of autumn leaves turning to consistent and frustrating snow, but now the sun shines a little longer each day and there are spots of green on the ground and it may be wishful thinking – or the product of being force fed by Mary Margaret – but Emma’s willing to assume that is some sort of sign. 

Of growth. Or change. Or the magical ability to defeat ultimate darkness, tell the people in town to _shut up_ and rule a kingdom without actually doing that second thing because telling the general populace to stop talking very likely won’t do much to inspire any sort of consistent devotion. 

“Emma, seriously,” Ruby hisses, another twist of fabric and Emma hears the telltale sounds of threads snapping. 

She rolls her whole head. David almost looks amused. “We are busy,” she sneers. “We’re--what are you looking at David?”  
  
“You’re delirious,” he says, a smile she absolutely does not appreciate at all. “And this is Arendelle, we’ve talked about this.”  
  
They have. Several times. Emma’s asked about it more than once. She’s not delirious. She’s terrified. And she’s got a growing suspicion that some of the talk in town isn’t natural. 

She’s got a growing suspicion that it’s magical. 

Dark magic. 

Ruby has started tapping her foot. 

“If you’re going to do that at least wait until Regina is here so she can preen when she realizes you’re stealing her moves,” Emma mutters, twisting out of Ruby’s hold so she can turn towards her. She crosses her arms, eyebrows lifted in silent challenge and free falling off the edge of desperation is not as bad she assumed it would be. Metaphorically, at least. 

“Would you like to hear my news or not?”  
  
“Obviously,” David grumbles, and Ruby flashes her teeth at him. Her nails are definitely a little longer than normal. 

Emma presses her tongue against the inside of her cheek, not sure if that feeling in between her ribs is from the sense of metaphorical falling or something a little more important. Ruby’s stare turns decidedly pointed. 

There’s dark magic in town, she knows it. 

“You want the good, the bad or the absolutely horrible?” Ruby asks, rocking back on her heels when Emma reaches behind her and throws an inkwell across the room. 

David clicks his tongue in frustration. “Are you kidding me?”  
  
“And you didn’t want to use magic?” Ruby continues. Her eyebrows shift, but there’s half a smile tugging at the ends of her mouth and that feeling in Emma’s center grows. She can’t seem to take a deep breath. 

“What’s the absolutely horrible?”

“Oh, Em, that’s masochistic.”  
  
“The absolutely horrible.”  
  
“There’s supposedly a witch in the town,” Ruby answers simply, mouth twitching when both Emma and David make nearly identical sounds of surprise and something akin to rage. 

“What kind of witch?" he asks. "Someone who could be working for the Dark One?”  
  
Ruby shrugs. “I don’t know, but I’d imagine he would. I’m fairly certain that’s why he’s here.” 

Emma freezes. Her eyes widen. That means, strictly speaking, she hasn’t actually frozen. “What does that mean?” she whispers, Ruby’s smile widening until she looks as if she’s found a particularly appetizing rabbit. 

It’s a disgusting thought. 

Mary Margaret wouldn’t appreciate that type of food. 

“Ruby,” Emma continues, voice turning pleading and David’s hand is warm when it lands on her shoulder, “who...is it…”  
  
Ruby nods. Her smile looks a little less wolfish now, not quite as predatory. Her eyes even look a little glossy. “I didn’t see him,” she says. “But the man who was very quick to take my rather generous amount of gold--”  
  
“--Focus, Ruby,” David mumbles. She rolls her eyes.  
  
“It was far too much gold for the information I got. More a puzzle than anything really, but, well, I’m very good at that at this point.”  
  
“Modest too.”

She winks. “The man at the docks said he saw a ship, looked quite a bit, and I’m quoting here, _like that one the Jones boy stole all those months ago_ \--”  
  
“--Commandeered,” Emma interrupts, and both Ruby and David groan. She presses her lips together, fighting off her own smile because it’s absurd to feel hopeful, but the snow is starting to melt and--God, she hopes. She hopes with every bit of her. And then some. “It’s commandeered when it’s a ship.”

“I do not care about the specifics of it,” Ruby promises. “The man thinks our good pirate captain stole a naval vessel, corrupted a whole crew of men to turn against the crown as well and while he’s stunned that someone could do that, he’s not all that interested in supporting the crown either.” She glares when Emma opens her mouth to ask another question. “Don’t,” she growls, “anyway, he said he saw a ship like the Jolly moving towards the north coast early this morning and isn’t it interesting that the pirate would show his face in Misthaven at the same time the witch in the alley has started making herself known as well?”

“The witch in the alley?” David repeats skeptically. Ruby may sprain her shoulders if she keeps shrugging like that. “What the hell does that mean?”  
  
“Did you miss the part where I said I didn’t know, but that Killian probably would?”

Emma’s breath rushes out of her, body sagging and heart hammering. She can feel the smile stretch across her face though, glancing down at slightly shimmering fingers and powerful magic and one of Ruby’s eyebrows arches when she all but jumps towards her. 

“You didn’t actually see him?” Emma presses. 

“I assumed you’d rather be the one to find him,” Ruby says. “I wouldn’t want to steal your true love thunder.”  
  
“We don’t know that that’s true.”  
  
Ruby scoffs. David makes a noise that does not sound human at all. “Sure, sure,” he mumbles, rolling up the chart of Arendelle before Emma has a chance to object. “Did this man happen to say where the alley witch was staying?”

“I’m not sure that she left a particular address, o ye captain.”  
  
“You’re not funny.”  
  
“Incorrect,” Ruby argues. “I am hysterical. And have also come up with several thousand ways that this is the sign we’ve been waiting for.”  
  
“Of?”  
  
“The Dark One was working with George. If he's got magic and support, why shouldn't we?  
  
“That’s not how the Dark One works,” Emma says, a certainty in her words that she doesn’t expect until she’s voicing them. 

“That so?”  
  
Emma blinks, twisting her lip between her teeth and her nod isn’t quite jerky, but it’s enough that her hair shifts slightly, so she knows she’s, at least, moved. "I don’t--I don’t think so. That’s got to be the difference, right? The Dark One is...selfish and opportunistic. He’s not going to depend on anyone else unless he can get something out of them.”  
  
“That’s depressing.”  
  
“I think that’s where darkness thrives,” David murmurs, and Ruby rolls her eyes. His eyes flicker back towards Emma when she moves again, hands flying through the air and feeling her own magic trace across her skin is strange. She shakes her hair back over her shoulders, shirt and pants changed for a dress and far-too-tight laces and--

“Did it work?” Emma asks. Her voice has shifted slightly, not _quite_ the right tone, but there’s still enough of her there that someone who knows her will notice. Her nose feels a little off center as well, eyes a bit closer together than usual and the feel of her own tongue in her mouth is a little foreign. 

David nods slowly, gaze going incredulous. Ruby cackles. It’s loud and exuberant, nearly joyful, as if Emma’s ability to change her appearance so she can sneak into town and find a pirate who isn’t _really_ a pirate but may possibly be her true love is a sign that they’re going to win. 

She’ll take it. 

“It worked,” Ruby promises. “That was...did you even say words when you cast that?”  
  
“Don’t tell Regina,” Emma mutters, pulling absentmindedly at the sides of her dress. Ruby laughs again. She might not have ever stopped, honestly. 

“Sure, sure, that’s what I’m going to hide from her majesty. Do you have a plan or…”  
  
“I’m going to go into...some tavern, I’m going to find Killian, we’re going to figure out what is going on in this kingdom and then we’re going to save the world.”  
  
David hums approvingly. “Good plan, succinct, straight to the point. I like it.”

“Well, it’s the only one I’ve got, so…”  
  
“And some tavern?” Ruby repeats. “That’s the best, though?”  
  
“You have another suggestion?”

She must have learned something about eyebrows dexterity from Killian. “True love,” she answers, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Emma’s not entirely opposed to those words in that particular order, has been depending on them since Killian left if she’s being honest, but it does feel like quite a bit of pressure and even more expectation. Her hand moves to the ring hanging over the front of her dress. 

“Exactly,” Ruby continues. “You focus that incredibly powerful magic of yours on your feelings and--”  
  
Emma doesn’t wait for the rest of it. She closes her eyes and pulls in a slow, steady breath, picturing ridiculous eyebrows and a flash of blue eyes and the smell of salt. 

She’s only slightly disappointed that’s what seems to make all the difference. 

Emma’s feet land on dirt and wooden planks, knees buckling under her. She throws her hands out behind her, determined to keep her balance and no one glances her direction. Her heart still hasn’t quite evened out yet, but that almost matches up with the magic lingering in the tips of her fingers and the backs of her calves and Emma glances around, trying to get her bearings. 

She jerks her head up when she hears the shouts, a door slamming open and a body flying out. The man is stout, more than a few stains on his clothes, visible even from Emma’s spot on the docks, and he doesn’t look all that surprised at his current predicament. He grumbles a few choice words under his breath as soon as the door slams shut, twisting to grab what appears to be the oldest hat in the world, yanking it down his head. 

The fabric is bright red. 

Emma’s seen him before – memories of clothes without stains and shoulders that were a bit straighter without the weight of all that ale sitting on them and her feet move on instinct. “Mr. Smee,” she calls, realizing only after he jolts in surprise that she shouldn’t know him. 

He scrambles up, eyes bugging and hat wobbling perilously on the top of his head. “Do I--do I know you ma’am? I--I’m not looking for any trouble, just trying to get some information.”

“About?”  
  
“That’s not really your place, ma’am. Now, if you’ll--” Smee tries to stand up, swaying dangerously as he does and Emma can’t mask her frustration. She huffs, scrunching a nose that she’s still not entirely used to. “Gods, I don’t think the whole world is supposed to shift like that when I stand up, do you?”  
  
“I can’t say that it is, no. Can you tell me something, Mr. Smee?”  
  
He blinks, lips twisted in confusion and a very distinct scent has started wafting off him. "Do I know you, lass?”  
  
“I doubt that, but I have heard some talk about how dependable you are and, well, as you can see...I’m just a poor lass out here on the docks, looking to make sure the whole world doesn’t end.”  
  
Her sarcasm is absurd, all things considered, but Emma has to breathe through her mouth now and Smee’s eyes are crossed. He keeps swaying. “Aye, aye, of course,” he mumbles, reaching a hand out like he’ll be the one to comfort her. His arm falls back to his side before he can even come close to Emma. “What can I do for you, my dear?”  
  
“I’m looking for your captain.”

Smee’s right foot slides out from underneath him. “What...what captain?” 

“Let’s be honest with each other, Mr. Smee. I don’t want to have to do something drastic.”  
  
“A little lass like you? What could you--”

Emma swipes her hand through the air, annoyance getting the better of her. Smee cries out when both his feet lift off the ground, legs swaying and trying to get back onto the ground, and Emma flips her palm up. Her fingers curl lightly, twisting and turning until Smee moves in a rhythm that matches every shift. 

His face goes a very distinct shade of green. 

“Is your captain here?” Emma presses. Smee nods. “That tavern?” She nods towards the building Smee’s only recently been tossed out of, and she fully expects another agreement. She doesn’t get it.

“No,” Smee says, jerking his arm at his side. Emma’s eyes follow the movement, another door she hadn’t noticed before, cast in shadow and low murmurs that barely find their way to her ears and she doesn’t think. She waves her hand, Smee’s soft grunt barely noticeable before it turns into a noise that is, quite obviously, snoring. 

She doesn’t run. She doesn’t trust herself to, but she moves with purpose, quick steps and even quicker magic, swinging open a door she did not expect to be that heavy. 

“Holy--” Emma grunts, slipping into the tavern and it’s not as loud as the place she assumed she’d have to get into. It’s darker, dim lights and half-melted candles on tables, but there are people everywhere, heads tucked together with secrets and plots and Emma’s fingers flutter at her side. 

There’s a tiny ball of light there now, as if it’s trying to ground her or remind her of something good, bouncing between the fingers she can’t stop moving and it only takes a few moments for the first few glances to be cast her way. 

Emma rolls her shoulders, pushing her hair back behind her ears and the first step she takes isn’t easy. The second is. The third is a bit like floating, a voice working towards her that makes a warmth flit up her spine and settle at the base of her skull. He’s in a small crowd, people seated around a table with half-finished mugs and dice that clack loudly every time they fall. 

She leans forward, fingers curling around the edge of the table and one of the women looks up in surprise. “What are you boys playing?” Emma asks, half a smile and a bit of flirting and neither one is entirely necessary, but Killian stares at her like she _is_ the goddamn sun. 

His tongue finds the corner of his mouth, chest moving when he lets out a shaky exhale. The clothes are different again – more charms around his neck and a jewel in his ear that Emma will very likely make fun of later, possibly after preventing the end of the world, and the lapels of the jacket he has on look particularly yankable. 

He looks at her like he’s been waiting for. Or, at least, hoping for her. 

There’s that word again.  
  
“Game of chance,” Killian says. “Some of these lovely folk here claim to have seen a rather interesting and powerful woman in the last few days and I’m trying to figure out where she’s gone since then.”  
  
“That so?” He nods, tongue shifting to the inside of his cheek so he can smirk at her. Emma narrows her eyes. “And how is it going for you, so far?”  
  
“Ah, it’s been a little give and take, but I’m optimistic my fate has changed rather suddenly. After all, what sailor would say no to a shiny, new good luck charm?”  
  
Emma’s laugh is shaky and breathy and more misplaced flirting. The woman at his side keeps glancing between them, and Killian’s shoulders jump as soon as he feels Emma’s magic react to that. “That’s rather presumptuous of you, isn’t it, Captain?”  
  
“Ah, so you know who I am, but I haven’t gotten your name yet, love.”  
  
She’s not her – has no idea what she actually looks like, but Emma knows he _knows_ and that was the point. Her magic is going to burst out of her, if she’s not careful. “Where’s the fun in that?” she asks.  
  
“Ah, so just...ships passing in the night, then?”  
  
“Closely,” she amends. “I hope.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“I believe you’re repeating me, Captain.”  
  
He nods, offering the space at his side and Emma has to twist around more than a few people, slightly roaming and heavy stares and Killian’s hand lands on her leg as soon as they’re blocked by the table. He squeezes it lightly. 

“Well, gentleman,” Killian says, gazing at the rather dingy and vaguely dangerous looking man across from them. “Shall we roll again? Best two out of three for the location of your witch?”

* * *

“You cheated!”  
  
“You keep saying that mate, and I keep finding it difficult to figure out how you’ve come to that particular conclusion.”

Emma chews on the side of her lip, certain that laughing at the man in front of her will only end with several drawn swords and even more use of her magic. They had cheated. Every time. And won. Every time. 

She’d flip her hand under the table and the dice would land a specific way and Killian’s fingers twitched whenever he felt the small burst of her magic. 

Now, they just need the information about the witch. 

“I don’t know how you did it,” the man growls, standing up quickly enough that the table wobbles precariously. Killian grins. “But I know--that wench showed up and--”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes. Killian all but leaps up, hand on his sword and fire practically blazing in the air around him. “I’d choose my next words very carefully,” he whispers, a threat dripping from every single letter. 

The man blanches. 

“I can take care of myself, Captain,” Emma murmurs, resting a hand on his chest and she can feel his heart beating. “And I’m afraid you’re mistaken, sir. There was no cheating, simply luck of the throw, as it were. That’s the saying, right?”

She glances at Killian, his lips still pressed together and fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. “Aye,” he mutters.

“So,” Emma continues, “we’ve won fair and square. That means you need to hold up your end of the bargain, I’m afraid. Or I won’t be able to stop things from turning...how would you describe it turning, Captain?”  
  
“Bloody.”  
  
Emma flashes a sympathetic smile at the man who has, miraculously, gotten even paler. “And we wouldn’t want that, would we? Sir?”  
  
“No, no, of course not,” he stammers, although his gaze hangs heavy on the sword Killian refuses to let go of. Emma rolls her eyes again. “I’ll--well, I haven’t actually spoken to the woman, this witch, she--”  
  
“--What?” Killian roars, and there’s not enough oxygen in the world for how much Emma keeps sighing. She sinks her nails into his chest, only a little frustrated the shirt is getting in the way still. He gapes at her, but they’re not supposed to _know_ each other and there is absolutely no point in looking like a different person if he’s going to stare at her like that.

“She...well, the rumors about her make the hair on the back of my arms stand up,” the man adds. “She’s--I don’t think she’s any kind of human.”  
  
“A lovely description,” Emma says. “What does she have? Tentacles? Scales? Perhaps a horn or two?”  
  
“No, nothing like that. I...well, from what I’ve been told she showed up in that alley, but now she's been spending most of her time in that shack down by the hill.”  
  
“The hill,” Killian echoes. “I’ll need you to be just a bit more specific.”

Emma wonders if the man is even getting blood to his head anymore. Killian draws his sword, the tip of the blade pressed against the hollow of the man’s throat, and a low hum moves across the tavern, but no one takes a step forward and no one tries to stop him and the legend of captain Killian Jones has grown enough, it seems. “Yes, yes, of course, sir,” the man babbles, “I--my own girl, she saw the woman a few days ago, just appeared, didn’t she? Showed up in a flash of light and burst of warmth and well--Matilde, that’s my girl, ma’am…”  
  
“Naturally,” Emma nods. “Still not an answer, I’m afraid and--” She shrugs, tilting her head back towards a glowering Killian and that shadow that’s fallen across his face makes Emma’s breath catch in her throat. 

“Matilde, she said the woman wasn’t much older than her, young even, with flowers in her hair and a soft smile and she was…she looked a little sad, though. As if she’d just left somewhere she didn’t want to. She went into that shack, have you...the one on the side of the hill on the north side of the kingdom? It’s barely even Misthaven anymore, close to--”  
  
“--That’s Midas’ kingdom,” Killian finishes, and Emma doesn’t mean to lean into the hand that lands on the small of her back, but the touch is a little greedy and something about history and memories and they’d spent hours there. 

“Yes, that’s right, Captain. It’s quiet there. Matilde said she thought the woman wanted a bit of quiet, she asked for privacy.”  
  
“And yet here you are giving up her location.”

The man grimaces, a hand reaching up to tug on the hair at the back of his head. “Yes, I am. You must have heard the rumors, sir. In the town, people whispering about what you wanted and, well...you did offer so much gold. I figured I’d roll you for it, take some of that weight out of your pockets and you’d be none the wiser.”  
  
Killian’s eyes narrow, thumb tapping an irregular rhythm on the hilt of his sword. “I’m sure it’s very disappointing to come up on the short end of such a detailed plan.”

Emma scoffs, trying to turn the sound into anything except the laugh it almost is. Killian’s hand moves to her hip. 

The man looks distraught. 

“You must be the luckiest man in all the realms then,” he says. 

Killian’s lips quirk up. “Aye, something like that. C’mon, love, I think we’ve got a witch to find.”

It takes them, by Emma’s admittedly shaky count, approximately fourteen and a half steps to get out of the tavern, turn into the nearest alley and for one of them to tilt their head. She gasps. It’s ridiculous, but Killian’s lips taste like rum and that same desperation she’d been fighting off before, quick hands and rolling hips and it almost hurts when her head falls back against the wall she hadn’t realized is behind her. 

“Take this off,” Killian mutters, dropping his mouth to the side of her neck and the swath of skin the dress doesn’t cover.  
  
“The dress?”  
  
He huffs against her, warm breath and a soft nip of his teeth. Emma yelps. That’s also ridiculous, although it does get him to laugh and she can feel the smile there, a sudden press of lips to her collarbone. “Whatever the magic is, Swan,” Killian says. “Maybe the dress after we deal with the witch.”  
  
“Promises, promises.”  
  
There are goosebumps on her skin - although she’s not sure if it’s a byproduct of her magic or his voice or that very specific, impossible to describe shade of blue his eyes get in moments like these. Moments where he wants her. Moments where he knew it was her. 

_Every single time_. 

“How did this even work?” Killian continues, apparently content to linger in the moment if the moment means he gets to keep tracing out a pattern of kisses dangerously close to the swell of her chest. 

“A glamour spell,” Emma breathes. Her voice isn’t entirely even. The lips dragging across her shift again. “Ruby heard you were here and I--”  
  
“--Came rushing to my side?”  
  
“I can leave if you’d like.”  
  
He doesn’t jerk back, but he freezes and that’s infinitely worse. And Emma knows she can’t actually hear him swallow. She does. She also doesn’t care. Because she can feel the shift in the air around them, a distinct lack of magic and wholly unfunny jokes and she’d been so worried. Every report. Every detail of the pirates and the destruction and what Misthaven’s navy was trying to do to fend off the latest threat. 

“Why didn’t you come find me?” Emma whispers, the question pushing up her throat and out of her mouth without permission. “I--how long have you been here? Ruby said--”  
  
“--Just this morning, love,” Killian cuts in. “We were in Oz.”  
  
“Oz?”  
  
“Aye, Oz. Met several different witches there, one of whom suggested that there was a weapon that could destroy anything. It’s called the Olympian Crystal.”  
  
“Destroy,” Emma repeats. “Not...not kill.”

“You may be the smartest woman I know, you realize that?”  
  
“Ah, well, flattery will get you everywhere, I suppose.”  
  
He chuckles, another quick kiss that’s over before it’s really begun, but they’re also on exceptionally borrowed time and there has to be a reason a witch appeared in Misthaven on the exact same hill she and Killian had spent most of their childhood. 

A hill where, Emma is fairly certain, she fell in love with a magicless boy and the specific shade of blue his eyes turned as soon as he glanced her direction. 

“Destroy,” Killian says again. “The witch--Zelena, her name was, she said it was a powerful weapon of the gods, designed to take over Olympus itself.”  
  
“And I’m assuming it wasn’t in Oz.”  
  
He grins at her. “It was not in Oz. Unfortunately Zelena was a little hazy on the location of this crystal or what we may have to do to obtain it. So, we were sailing when a bird landed on the helm of my ship.”  
  
“Was it Joshua because he and I should have some words about incorrect messages some time. I think Mary Margaret took that personally.”  
  
“The bird and I didn’t exactly converse, love. He dropped this--” Killian shifts, reaching into the jacket to pull out a--”pomegranate seed in my palm. And the only place I know that bears this particular kind of fruit is--”  
  
“--The hill on the northern side of the kingdom,” Emma whispers. 

“Exactly. So we replotted a course for Misthaven, docked at some ungodly hour this morning and were almost immediately met with rumors of the witch that only just arrived as well. I...I wanted to find you, love. I--” His eyes drop, tongue flashing between his lips. Emma shifts her weight between her feet, the ring she’s never actually taken off falling over the front of her dress. 

Killian nearly falls over. 

“Steady there, Lieutenant,” Emma laughs, and she knows how that sentence was going to end. He didn’t want to find her before he had answers. He didn’t want to find her before he could save them. 

Before he could save her. 

“But,” she adds, “if you ever try and do something ridiculous like that on your own again, I’ll throw you in the ocean. Ask your...whatever Mr. Smee is now. I’m sure he’ll be quick to tell you.”

His laugh quivers out of him, not quite a boastful pirate captain, but something that might just be Emma’s and she holds on to that with all of her. “First mate,” he says. “Did you do something to Mr. Smee?”  
  
“Made him more comfortable, at least. He had just been thrown out of a different tavern.”  
  
“He was supposed to be inconspicuous about that.”  
  
“Maybe he shouldn’t have had quite that much ale then. Insubordinate crew, you have.”  
  
“I was rather preoccupied, Swan,” Killian argues, fingers dancing up her side and ghosting over the top of her dress and Emma’s teeth find her lip as soon as he touches the chain hanging around her neck. “Can I see you now?”  
  
She furrows her brows in confusion – magic completely forgotten and it’s an almost blissful moment of unintended ignorance. Killian taps his thumb against her jaw. “Your nose is all off, you realize that, aye?”  
  
“It was kind of quick magic,” Emma grumbles, closing her eyes and focusing on the rush of heat that shoots through all of her limbs. She knows it works when he sighs. “Better?” she asks, Killian already nodding and smiling and he’s barely caught her lips with his when the cry rings out at the other end of the alley, something that sounds like _pirates_ and _that’s him_ echoing around them. 

“Are you going to go crazy if I---” Emma waves her hand through the air, Killian's lips twisting into a sneer. 

“Do you have to?”  
  
“Unless you’d like to fight your way out of here.”  
  
“I’m very confident in my ability to do that, actually.”

“Gods, you’re stubborn,” Emma groans, yanking on the lapels of his jacket and she’d been right. “Do not let go of me.”

* * *

The grass under Emma’s feet is soft, a dew hanging on each blade that doesn’t belong under an evening sky. Killian’s hands are heavy on her back, pulling her against his chest as soon as she opens her eyes. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” he mutters, Emma laughing against his shirt. She reaches up, scratching her nails lightly against the skin his shirt doesn’t cover. 

“Who knew pirates whine so much.”  
  
He makes a noise in the back of his throat, letting his cheek rest against the top of her hair. “I don’t know why,” he admits softly. “I--it feels like you’re not actually there.”  
  
“I am, though.”  
  
“Aye, I know that rationally. But, well, in the moment, even when I’m holding on to you as tightly as I can...it’s as if you’re being yanked away from me. I’ve always been able to feel your magic, Swan, always, but when that happens it’s--”

Killian cuts himself off, Emma pressing up on her toes and the stubble on his cheek scratches at her palm. They’re wasting time. She doesn’t move. He kisses the inside of her wrist. “I can’t feel anything,” he whispers. “It’s like I’m completely empty and there’s nothing keeping me connected to anything anymore.”  
  
Emma opens her mouth, not sure what she’ll say, just certain she has to say _something_ and the hint of fear hanging over Killian makes her whole body ache. So, naturally, someone coughs softly behind them. 

She has no idea which one of them moves quicker – Emma’s hands flying up and light pulsing from the tips of her fingers, Killian’s sword flashing against a sunset that casts shadows and low light and the woman in front of them does not look human. 

Ethereal, that’s the word. 

There’s a soft shimmer to her skin, like there are stars underneath it, and the crown of flowers in her hair blooms as if those petals are still alive. Emma isn’t convinced they’re not. Her eyes are soft, caring, even, with a knowledge that seems impossibly vast, even before she says a single word. 

Her tongue shifts across her teeth, an arch to her brows when her eyes flit towards Killian’s sword. “Ah, so there it is, then,” she muses. “You don’t have to threaten me, Captain. I’m actually here to help. Breaking the rules too.”  
  
Killian doesn’t lower his sword. 

The woman clicks her tongue. “I figured it might be like this. I did try and pick somewhere i thought you’d both be comfortable.”  
  
“You know who we are?” Emma asks, and the woman nods. “Does that mean we get a name?”  
  
“It’s probably best if we don’t focus too much on names, princess. As I said, I am breaking the rules a bit here with you.”  
  
“And those rules are…”  
  
“Interfering with prophecy.”

Killian’s arm lowers slightly. “What do you know about the prophecy?”  
  
“Probably quite a bit more than you do, actually.”  
  
“Well, that’s menacing, isn’t it?”  
  
“That’s not my intention,” the woman says, and Emma knows she means it. There’s none of the usual warning signs of a lie – no flutter at the back of her brain or nervous energy pulling at the base of her spine. Every one of her internal organs seems to be operating correctly. 

“So what is your intention, then?” Killian presses. He tries to take a step in front of Emma, but that only makes her roll her eyes again. The woman’s lips turn up. 

“You’re chasing the wrong weapon. You won’t be able to get the Olympian Crystal.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Well, for one thing, it’s broken. And for another, it’s not on this earthly plane anymore. I’m afraid, it’s stuck...somewhere you won’t be able to go.”  
  
“Which is?”  
  
“Stubborn, aren’t you?”  
  
“I told you,” Emma mumbles, Killian’s eyes flashing her direction. He doesn’t try and stop her when she steps towards the woman – it’s probably because there’s still light falling out of her fingers. “Is that even possible?” she asks. “To find a weapon that could defeat the Dark One? I thought--well, I thought I was the weapon.”  
  
The woman tilts her head, gritting her teeth in what Emma can only assume is thought. “A little yes, but also no. You have powerful magic, your highness. And it’s grown since you and the pirate--”  
  
“--Gods, are we still doing that?” Killian growls exasperatedly. 

“My apologies, Captain. It’s, well...those who control these things often work in titles and the princess and the pirate does have quite a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t hate it,” Emma says, glancing over her shoulder and she isn’t surprised to find Killian smirking at her. “Plus, the jacket is really something.”  
  
The smirk gets more powerful. And her magic jumps. 

The woman coughs again, rocking forward slightly. The blades of grass under her feet don’t bend. Emma reaches behind her, Killian’s fingers finding hers almost immediately. 

“You have powerful magic, your highness,” the woman repeats, “and it’s always been foretold that the person who wields that kind of light magic would be able to save the world from darkness. But, and here’s the rub, that magic, that same power the whole universe has been waiting a lifetime for, it’s far too much for one person to control.”

Emma’s fingers tighten. Or Killian’s do. It doesn’t matter. “What does that mean?” Emma asks. 

“It means that you needed to find something...anything, some kind of happiness to accept your magic. And, as fate would have it, that happiness derived from a magicless boy who believed you were the sun and every star in the sky.”

Emma exhales, a burst of air and magic and emotions. The woman’s smile doesn’t waver. “And, again, as fate would have it, that same boy found his happiness in you. In that belief you showed him, that trust, to give a bit of yourself to him every day.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound particularly pleasant,” Killian points out, the woman already laughing. It’s exactly the sound Emma expects her to make, melodic and easy, immediately setting her at ease. She still doesn’t let go of Killian’s hand. 

“Ah, and that’s a little pessimistic, Captain,” the woman says. “Understandable, all things considered, but that’s what I’m getting at. You’ve been searching for the Dark One, but he never would have come for you without the princess. True Love, and all that. He wants that.”  
  
“That’s what George said.”  
  
“And as much as it pains me to say that George is right about anything…” The woman shrugs. “You’re both still missing the point, though. You were looking for a weapon, but you have the weapon and you created it yourself. Emma was born with magic, the most powerful light magic in the world, and Killian accepted that. Without question. Loved her in spite of the fear that lingered in her and the worry that festered in the back of her brain. And she loved him despite the lack of standing and everything his brother had done. Tell me, Captain, what would you say your most prized possession is?”  
  
Killian blinks. And Emma’s jaw drops when she realizes. 

“The sword,” she breathes, nodding towards the blade he’d never sheathed. The woman nods.

“Exactly. A gift, your highness, from a princess to her pirate. Imbued with the very magic that you learned to control right here. A bit of you, a bit of light--”  
  
“--Light in the dark,” Emma mutters. 

“Exactly. That sword has become something more than it was, just as you both have as well. A Swan and a Knight. That was the rest of it, wasn’t it?” Emma hopes she nods. She isn’t sure she’s breathing. Killian kisses the top of her hair. “You can wield it, as the Savior and as one half of the True Love the Dark One wants. Desperately.”  
  
“And what will the sword do?”  
  
“Cut ties,” the woman answers simply. And eventually, Emma is sure, she’ll be able to get her questions out in some kind of timely fashion, but that is apparently not the reality she’s living in and the woman curses in a language she doesn’t understand as soon as the first tremor moves across the field. 

As if the world itself is fighting back. 

“Why weren’t you supposed to tell us that?” Emma presses, struggling to stay upright and the shadows moving towards them are very clearly human. And very clearly from the town. 

“Gods, the pirate thing has to stop,” Killian grumbles. “And why did you tell us?”  
  
The woman shrugs again – an increasingly strange movement with the questionably green grass under her bare feet growing. “I’ve always been partial to a particularly good love story,” she says. “And I know what you’d be willing to do for her, Captain. You may have to keep that in mind. Soon.”  
  
Emma resists the urge to repeat the word _menacing_ , far too focused on the flicker in Killian’s eyes and the curt nod he gives a nameless woman who may be growing grass simply by standing on it. “Aye,” he whispers. 

And that’s all there is. The agreement is no sooner out of his mouth than the woman is gone, and the shadows are swords and people pointing them, shouts of a _reward_ on their tongues and Emma waves her hands before she thinks. 

The nearest man flies back, sword disintegrating in his hand until he’s holding an empty hilt. The scene dissolves quickly, steel on steel and Emma’s hands moving, a push of power and adrenaline and she barely hears Killian’s quiet _bring us back to the ship, love, please_ before she’s lacing her fingers through his and blinking. 

* * *

“Idiot,” she cries, not for the first time, pacing the same semicircle in the captain’s cabin. Their landing had been the worst ones yet, probably because of the gash on Killian’s side and the blood staining his shirt and it had only taken a moment for Emma to close her eyes and fix it, but there’s a scar there now and she can’t stop moving. 

“Swan, if you’d just sit--”  
  
“--No,” she snaps, spinning on the balls of her feet instead, and the small rug underneath her nearly trips her up. Killian’s eyebrows jump. “Don’t,” Emma warns. “Just---Gods, I can’t believe that happened.”  
  
“It does make my use of the word underling in relation to August seem all the more legitimate though, doesn’t it? It's rather rude of him to offer a reward for my capture.”  
  
Emma glares at him, sharp enough that she worries she’ll cut him again if she looks too long. “Didn’t you feel the blade?”  
  
“Aye, I did.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what, love? We were trying to get out of a field where a woman I sincerely doubt was human told us that we’ve been wasting our time for months, searching for a weapon that’s been strapped to my hip since I was twenty-one. I was admittedly a little preoccupied.”  
  
Emma stops pacing. She exhales, all drama and those worries _whatever her name_ was alluded to and--"Tell me about a place,” she says instead. 

Killian stares at her, not an immediate answer, but his hand shifts, patting the few inches of open space on the cot next to him. “C’mere, Swan.”  
  
“You are injured.”  
  
“Was. You fixed that. Some may even say you saved me.”  
  
“That’s far too dramatic,” she mumbles, although her feet start to move before she completely decides she’s going to walk forward. The cot creaks under her weight. “A place, Lieutenant. Somewhere...somewhere we could go.”

She hears him chuckle, low like he’s accepting her words or letting them settle in him, and Emma wiggles her fingers to get the thin blanket at the edge of the cot over both her legs. “Magic has made you very lazy, your highness,” Killian says. 

“I was trying to protect your side.”  
  
“We’ve discussed that already. I am fine. You made sure of that. I’m sure you could fix things that were even worse.”  
  
Emma clicks her tongue. “Let’s not test that theory, huh? And you’re deflecting my question.”  
  
“I’m not,” he argues. “I’m trying to come up with somewhere that’s worthy of bringing you.”  
  
“Gods, stubborn and dramatic. Quite a suitor to chose.”  
  
She doesn’t say it for the reaction. At least, partially. But the reaction is fairly wonderful anyway, a quick shift and mouths pressed together and Emma’s mumbled _you’re going to hurt yourself_ falls on definitely deaf ears.  
  
“Stop suggesting your magic isn’t going to work, love,” Killian says, not bothering to move his mouth away from hers. “Did you mean it?”  
  
“Mean what?”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
She scoffs, but she can’t mask her magic and that’s probably for the best. For a variety of reasons – mostly whatever it does to Killian’s entire expression as soon as he feels it. “Of course I did,” she says, hoping it sounds like the promise she wants it to be. 

He lets his head fall, landing with a soft thump on her chest. The chain there must be pressing against his skin, but Killian doesn’t seem all that inclined to move and Emma’s fingers find their way into the back of his hair, measured touches as if she’s trying to press it into his memory. 

She has no idea how long they stay like that, simply content to linger in each other’s space, the steady rise and fall of their breathing and the slight shift of Killian’s shoulders when he tries to pull himself closer to Emma. She doesn’t tell him to move. 

She doesn’t want him to move. 

It’s the first time she’s ever been in the captain's quarters. 

“If this were a normal kingdom there’d be a line of suitors outside your door,” Killian says eventually, dragging the words against the top of Emma’s dress. 

She clicks her teeth together. “If this were a normal kingdom I wouldn’t have been a princess to begin with. I’m not exactly royal pedigree.”  
  
“Ah, I don’t know about that, Swan. There’s a rather regal air about you. Commanding, even.”  
  
“Doesn’t sound like a compliment.”  
  
He tilts his head up, smirking from underneath impossibly long eyelashes. “Would I do something like that?”  
  
“I’m not answering that question,” she grumbles, trying to swat at his shoulder. His reflexes are too quick – or she’s the open book he’s always promised her he finds her – fingers catching her wrist and lips brushing over the back of her palm and Emma hopes she doesn’t actually melt into the cot. “Even so,” she adds, “if...if this wasn’t...this. If there was no magic and no prophecy. If I was just me and you were just you, do you think--”  
  
“--Every single time,” Killian interrupts, a fierceness to his voice that brokers no argument. “It was never about the magic. I didn’t stay because of the magic.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“Good. And Agrabah.” She hums in confusion, eyes fluttering shut and it’s impossibly warm on that ship, sun long set and the ebb and flow of an ocean that could take them anywhere else. “Agrabah,” Killian repeats. “That was...we haven’t been many places that were particularly pleasant, but I think you’d like that.”  
  
Emma opens one of her eyes. “And why is that, Lieutenant?”  
  
“You think you’re awfully clever, don’t you, princess?”  
  
“Aye,” she answers, a horrible impression of his voice that leads to more kisses and laughter and that had been her intention. 

He nips at her lip, hips rocking without much thought to the friction it’s causing. The blanket is in the way now. “It was warm,” he starts, tongue pressing against the seam of Emma’s mouth, “Sand everywhere, which, well, that’s not ideal, but the market they have there--we were trying to find some staff that could control people and--”  
  
“--You are not painting a very good picture here.”  
  
“If you’d stop interrupting me, I’d be able to finish.” 

“Get better at storytelling.”  
  
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”  
  
“Gods.”  
  
He chuckles, grinning against her cheek and Emma is momentarily distracted from her frustration by the flurry of kisses pressed to the bridge of her nose. “Anyway, the sand wasn’t ideal, but the city was...there was life to it, a buzz and a hum. As if it were alive. Magic there as well, although it wasn’t like it was here. It lived in the air and settled in the cracks in the buildings, like the whole city was built around it.”  
  
Emma doesn’t say anything, stunned almost by the by the distant look in Killian’s eyes, as if he can see the whole future play out in front of him. “We could go anywhere, Swan,” he adds. “But I think you’d like it there. And I’m a little partial to some of the dresses they sold in that market.”  
  
She laughs. Loud. And exuberant. And _wrong_ , far too much pressure to save everything, but Emma is happy and wanted and she knows _go anywhere_ really means that he’d follow wherever she led. 

Every single time. 

“I love you,” she whispers, fingers still carding through his hair and that particular shade of blue may be her new favorite. 

“I love you too, Swan.”

“Good dresses, huh?”  
  
“Exceptionally.”

Her laughter clings to her, and Emma is woe to give it up, but there’s still that pesky future and those expectations and she’s going to turn August to stone or something. “Do you think she was telling the truth?” she asks. “The woman, I mean. That we created...something like that?”  
  
Killian’s face goes somber, that same shadow from earlier appearing again. Emma ignores it. That may be a mistake. She hopes not. 

_Hopes_. 

She hopes. 

“It’d almost make me believe even more,” Killian says. “That...that we could do that. Although it does leave us with the problem of finding the Dark One again.”  
  
“She said---well, she never did say it would destroy the Dark One, did she? Just that it would destroy darkness.”  
  
“Do you think there’s a difference?”

Whatever noise Emma makes hurts her throat. “What else could it mean?”  
  
“It’s not my prophecy, love.”  
  
“See, I don’t think that’s true,” Emma objects. “A Swan and a Knight. That’s...that’s us, Killian, it’s got to be. And you’re the one who came up with swan. I think it’s both of us.”  
  
“That’s always been true.”  
  
“Sentimental.”

“About fulfilling my role as proper suitor, yes.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a flutter of emotion in the pit of her stomach and her magic refuses to stay in those metaphorical shadows. “But I--” Killian says, the words going quiet, “let me ask eventually, alright, love?”  
  
Emma can’t tilt her head, most of his weight resting on her chest and her own body pushed into a small pile of pillows, but her heart stutters and her pulse races and her _ok_ is more than a little breathless.  
  
“It’s not a normal kingdom, Emma,” Killian continues, “it’s magic and fate and I really do not think that woman in the field was human, but this...you and I? That’s been the one normal thing. Like...like breathing, or finding the right star to sail towards.”  
  
There are tears in her eyes. She never wants to leave this cot. 

“The one normal thing,” she repeats, and Killian’s smile settles in every inch of her memory, imprinting itself on the darker parts of her brain that still wonder if she’ll wake up in an alley with magically repaired clothes and entirely alone. 

“Aye. Do I get to kiss you now?”  
  
“Was something holding you back?”  
  
“The aforementioned sentimental speech.”  
  
Emma nods, nose scrunched and she silently congratulates herself on whatever noise she causes when she rocks her hips up. And the rest is a blur of discarded clothes and getting rid of that blanket, pillows knocked on the floor and fingers tracing over every bit of skin that appears in front of them. She tells him she loves him again. He promises more. And the future stretches out in front of them, the hope of it and the want Emma is certain simmers in the very center of her soul, more kisses and words pressed into memory and her breath catches as soon as she shifts above him, falling into a rhythm that makes stars explode behind her eyes.

* * *

She doesn’t remember falling asleep. She only realizes she was when she wakes up. 

“Let me down there, now!”  
  
Emma groans, but Killian is already moving, not bothering to reach for his shirt before he grabs his sword. He has to shake the scabbard off.

“You look ridiculous,” Emma mutters, but exhaustion is still clinging to her words and the commotion on deck is getting louder. 

The door swings open, Mr. Smee already sputtering and looking a little green around the edges. “I tried to stop him, cap’n, but…”

David pushes Smee away, stare thunderous and his own sword pointed up. He sighs as soon as he sees the cot. And it’s occupants. “Gods, this is--”  
  
“--A private cabin, your highness,” Killian sneers. The tips of his ears have gone red anyway. 

“I do not care. Put a shirt on, Captain.”  
  
“What’s going on, David?” Emma asks, sliding further under blankets in a misplaced attempt to maintain her modesty. 

And, really, of all the answers she expects, the next few words that fall out of David’s mouth are the last one she’s prepared for – the realization of what he’s said making it feel as if the world itself is falling apart around her. 

She swears the tide stops moving. 

“Once more,” Killian says. David huffs. “That can’t be--”  
  
“--It is,” David interrupts. “Regina found him this morning. And we were right, Emma, we should have fortified that corner of the castle. George is dead. The Dark One killed him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are all lovely. Thanks for clicking on this. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	11. Chapter 11

“Regina, you can’t keep throwing fireballs around, something is going to, you know..actually catch on fire,” Mary Margaret says reasonably. She’s perched on the arm of a throne, David slumped in the actual seat, and they’re back in that goddamn room. 

Regina keeps throwing balls of fire everywhere. 

And Emma isn’t exactly sure she’s managed to wrap her head around everything that’s happened in the last few minutes – a vaguely manic David and a quick exit from a ship full of very confused pirates, most of whom cast curious glances her direction when she appeared in the doorway of the captain’s quarters wearing, mostly, their captain’s clothes, and Killian has resolutely refused to sheath his sword. 

George is dead. That much, at least, is obvious. There’s a body and a conveniently absent August and Ruby is convinced the word has already spread through the entire town, a few jokes about fire that made Regina glower and David click his tongue and Emma is very worried for the future of the curtains on the far side of the room. 

“I don’t think she heard you,” Ruby mumbles, sitting cross legged at Emma’s feet. They hadn’t moved very far into the room itself, far too aware of Regina’s magical escapades and obvious frustration, and Emma isn’t sure Killian would actually let her take another step forward. 

The tension in his jaw can’t possibly be good for him. 

Regina spins, glaring metaphorical daggers at Ruby. Who smiles in response. “I heard her,” Regina sneers, “I just didn’t care about any of the material things in this room.”  
  
“That’s a metaphor for our childhood, I think.”  
  
“You’re taking this rather calmly, aren’t you?” David asks, and Emma can see his fingers tapping on the side of his thigh. His sword is resting on his knee. 

“Incorrect. I’m taking this terribly, I’m just masking it better than all of you. Also, if Killian breathes any louder, I’m fairly certain the Dark One will come and attack us immediately because he’ll know exactly where we are.”  
  
“That was convoluted,” Emma mumbles. “Also, can we focus on that part?”  
  
“Which part? The breathing?”  
  
“We should all be breathing as consistently as possible,” Mary Margaret says. She does not appear to be taking her own advice. 

Regina throws a fireball at the curtains. 

“Well, there goes that,” Killian mutters, slinging an arm around Emma’s shoulders. It’s not particularly comfortable, but she curls herself against his side and none of this makes any sense. It never really has. 

“The Dark One shouldn’t care about George,” Emma says slowly, as if dragging out the syllables will make them easier to understand. “That--ok, can we backtrack for a second?”  
  
Regina blinks. “To where, exactly?”

“The start. Or, well, at least close to the start. Because we may know something.”  
  
“About?”  
  
“How to defeat the darkness.”

Regina looks like she wants to set Emma on fire. She snarls, teeth bared, and David curses loudly, even Mary Margaret jumping up to gape at Emma. Killian’s arm tightens, and his knuckles have gone white around the hilt of his sword. 

Ruby doesn’t move. 

“Ok, ok, so George was collecting us for the Dark One, yes?” Emma asks, lifting her hands in mock surrender. No one answers her. “That was rhetorical. He was. But then...he decided to flip sides, the Dark One didn’t like that, but he didn’t kill Killian. He attacked and he--well, he’s the reason for those rumors in town, I know it.”  
  
“Where are you going with this, Emma?” Ruby asks. 

“I think the Dark One is trying to turn people against us. And I...have no idea why.”  
  
“Well, that’s helpful,” Regina hisses. “Was that your brand-new information? Because I don’t think that will help us find him now and does lead us to my point.”  
  
David drops his sword. “You have a point?”  
  
“There was definitely a better way to phrase that,” Killian mutters, a quick twist of his eyebrows when David glares at him. 

“I am not interested in any conversation with you after what I saw before and--”  
  
“--Right?” Ruby crows, laughing so hard she nearly falls backwards. Emma briefly wonders if her magic is strong enough to sink through the floor. And she knows they’re wasting time, debating things that don’t require discussion because the one goddamn thing that can defeat darkness is gripped tightly in Killian’s right hand. 

They just need to find the Dark One. 

Easy. If the people in town weren’t rising up in revolt, questioning the intentions of the royal family and their ability to protect them, rumors swirling about the princess being seen with that infamous pirate and Emma never should have taken the spell off. 

“I really don’t know that this is the time or place for that,” Mary Margaret says. She’s still standing, arms crossed lightly across a gown that is also a little out of place and she keeps wearing her crown. 

As if that will make people trust her more. 

“Emma,” she continues, “what do you think you know about defeating the Dark One?”  
  
“We found the witch.”  
  
Regina’s snarl turns into a growl and a burst of magic, flames flaring at her fingertips. “And this is the first time you thought to mention that?”  
  
“I didn’t think that George would be dead,” Emma reasons. “We don’t--ok, listen to me, we found the witch and she wasn’t...she wasn’t a witch.”  
  
“Or human,” Killian adds, Regina’s eyebrows moving so quickly Emma wonders if they’ve actually burned off. 

“And what did this otherworldly being tell you?” Regina asks. 

“That my sword could destroy the darkness.”  
  
“The Dark One?”  
  
“No,” Emma says. “The darkness. As in the spark of darkness. That it would cut ties.”  
  
“Wouldn’t that just be the Dark One?” David argues, and Emma can dimly hear people shouting from the other end of the hall. “Also, can we figure out why that same Dark One would wait until now to kill George? Seems awfully arbitrary doesn’t it?”

“Maybe he was just having some fun,” Ruby shrugs. 

Emma shakes her head so hard her neck aches. “No,” she whispers, glancing up at Killian. He smiles. “That’s--I think it all adds up doesn’t it?”  
  
“It’s your equation, love.”  
  
“Well, you’re no help at all.”  
  
“We don’t have time for this,” Regina growls. She’s staring out the window, a small pile of ashes falling towards her feet and Emma can just make out the crowd growing in front of the walls. They’re under attack. 

And the Dark One planned this. 

“He was waiting,” Emma says, realization striking her like lightning. And magic. Her own magic. “The Dark One, I mean. Ok, ok, keep up with this--” Regina glares at her, but Killian brushes a kiss against her temple and Emma’s going to focus on the second thing. “The Dark One wanted us, all of us. Because of the prophecy and what he thinks I can do, but the woman--the not-witch, I guess. She said that the only way I could defeat the darkness was because of--”  
  
“--Love,” Mary Margaret finishes, a whisper and a breath of hope and there are unshed tears in her eyes. “That’s it, isn’t it?”  
  
Emma nods. “Exactly. That our...well our True Love changed the sword, made it possible so that it could destroy darkness and I think the Dark One knows that. So he’s waited, bided his time and stirred rumors here. He’s tried to turn people against us, make it as hard as possible to find him and as soon as the not-witch showed up in Misthaven, he made his move. George was always going to die, it was just a matter of when.”  
  
Ruby lets out a low whistle, leaning back on her palms. “Well, that’s absolutely terrible, isn’t it?”

“It’s not the best thing in the world, no.”  
  
“So what do we do now?”

“Find the Dark One,” Emma answers. “He can’t have gotten far and, well...if he’s putting the plan in action now, he won’t want to be far. He wants me. He wants my magic and what I can do and--”  
  
“--The power of your True Love,” Regina cuts in sharply. “So, you’re not going.”  
  
David needs to stop dropping his sword. It’s not very intimidating. Or inspiring. Ruby nearly falls over again. “Wait, what?” she sputters. “Wasn’t that...isn’t that the whole point of everything?”  
  
“It’s not happening,” Regina says, sounding as if she’s issuing several royal decrees.

Emma’s laugh lacks a distinct bit of humor, and she doesn’t try to move away from Killian. She clicks her teeth though, not quite a threat, but possibly a challenge and the magic simmering in the back of her mind makes her feel undeniably powerful. 

“Em,” Ruby says slowly, nodding at pants she had to knot at the waist to keep up, “you’re glowing a little bit.”

She glances down, startling at the sight in front of her. And Ruby is right. She’s not entirely phosphorescent, and it’s different than the not-witch had been, but there’s definitely an obvious shine there, as if her magic is pulsing and vibrating under her. The warmth of it makes Emma’s breath hitch, although it’s not entirely overwhelming. 

It’s a bit like--

“Standing in front of a fire,” Killian whispers, and Emma turns against him, chin tilted up and smile a little cautious and he matches her expression with something that feels a lot like unspoken and unwavering dedication. 

“Like home.”

He nods. “Exactly like that.”

“I don’t care if you turn into some kind of actual star, you’re still not going,” Regina says, widening her eyes when Emma twists back around. “I believe what you’re saying about the Dark One. And I agree with you, but--”  
  
“--Why does it always have to be a but there?” Ruby mumbles. 

Regina ignores her. “The Dark One is powerful, Emma. He’s gotten an entire kingdom to bend to his will without so much as showing his face to any of us and we don’t have a lot of time to track him down before we have to protect ourselves from that same kingdom.”  
  
“He can’t have gone far, Regina,” Emma argues. “You know that. You know he wants me. He thinks--”  
  
“--He thinks he can use your power to control everything, I know. I heard all the plans. I know all the plots. I know all the tricks. And that’s why I’m telling you, some woman who may or may not have been human telling you that the captain’s sword could possibly destroy the Dark One is not enough for me to change my plan.”  
  
The room goes silent. Mostly. The growing crowd outside the walls is rather loud. It sounds like they have battering rams. 

“And what, exactly, your highness, is your plan?” Killian asks softly. His fingers tighten around the curve of Emma’s shoulder, flipping his wrist and she can see it for the challenge it is – sword in hand and blade pointed directly at Regina. 

She blinks. “The Dark One once spoke of a curse. A spell that could transport everyone and everything out of this realm. It’s...well, it’s not easy to cast, but--” Her inhale is sharp and nervous, teeth tugging on her lower lip with an emotion Emma has never seen before. Regina is scared. It’s off-putting.  
  
“Is there such a thing? Another realm?” David asks, a quick nod from Regina. 

“More than you can imagine.”

Emma narrows her eyes, the soft flutter at the back of her consciousness more than enough to make it clear that they’re not being told the whole story. “What else, Regina?”  
  
“I’m not sure what you’re asking me.”  
  
“For the truth. Where would this curse send us? And what do you need to cast it?”  
  
She doesn’t pale, not entirely, but her cheeks go splotchy and her tongue flashes between her lips, shaky shoulders and uneven breathing. Killian scoffs. “It’s not particularly good magic is it, your highness?”  
  
“No,” Regina says. “It’s...well, the curse that the Dark One found would send us to a land without magic. Where magic would...it would wither away, eventually. There’s nothing there to support it or help it grow.”  
  
“And how do you cast it?”  
  
“You have to crush the heart of the thing you love the most.”  
  
There is no silence that time. There are loud objections and even louder curses, Ruby’s mumbled _oh that’s all_ reverberating between Emma’s ears. She has no idea what noise she makes, but it’s not particularly pleasant and the churning in her gut feels as if her stomach is trying to rise up in revolt. 

“Why would we do that, Regina?” Emma asks. “That’s not--that’s not how the prophecy was supposed to work.”  
  
Regina rolls her shoulders, standing up to her full height and it’s almost menacing – fire in her hand and her gaze and Emma doesn’t blink. She lifts her eyebrows. “Aren’t you tired of following a prophecy, Emma?” Regina whispers. “This great plan for a life you weren’t ever particularly interested in? You’ve been twisted and turned and used by everything and everyone. I’m offering you a way out of that. A place where magic would disappear eventually. Where the Dark One wouldn’t be able to follow.”  
  
“And you can guarantee that?” David challenges, eyes darting between Emma and Killian’s sword and the fire in Regina’s hand keeps changing color. “The Dark One wouldn’t be able to get there? Ever?”  
  
“Seems rather absolute,” Ruby murmurs. 

Regina ignores her again. “Yes,” she says. “We could bring the entire kingdom. Keep the Dark One and darkness and any threat here and we’d be safe. It’d--”  
  
“--And what heart do you propose to crush to get us there?” Emma cuts in, fury rising in the back of her throat and her magic makes it feel as if her hand is about to explode. 

Killian lowers his sword, turning towards her with wide eyes and understanding etched into every corner of his face. “It’s ok, love, just breathe.”  
  
“I’m doing that already.”  
  
“Aye, well, maybe just do it a bit better, ok?”  
  
Ruby laughs, a poor time for humor, but Regina still looks thunderous and David looks incredulous and it must be impossible for Mary Margaret to see through all those tears in her eyes. Her crown is slightly crooked now. “I haven’t gotten that far yet,” Regina admits softly, Killian scoffing at the words. 

“And you said we didn’t have time to follow the goddess’ instructions.”  
  
Emma’s magic jumps. “You think it was a goddess?”  
  
“It’s a hunch.”  
  
“And I’m not all that inclined to follow the pirate’s hunches,” Regina says, seemingly recovering from her shock in just enough time to dispatch pointed insults. 

Killian’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a pleasure as always, your highness.”

The crowd outside is really more like a mob now – torches and what may actually be real, genuine pitchforks, cries on their lips and a hatred that feels almost palpable. David picks his sword up off the ground. 

“We need to do something about this,” he says, nodding towards the window. “Let’s forgo casting curses until we deal with the people we’ve been trying to protect. And, Emma,” David adds, glancing towards her and the bit of light clinging to sleeves of a shirt that’s also far too big, “we’ll find the Dark One soon.”

Emma doesn’t answer. She’s too busy coming up with a plan. 

Mary Margaret’s already muttering under her breath, a soft noise that Emma quickly realizes is the flutter of bird wings, and Ruby stands up, fingers curling around the amulet hanging from her neck. She bobs on the balls of her feet as her spine stretches, hair falling across the back of her neck and nails widening quickly. 

Regina shakes her head, disappointment obvious in the movement, but she doesn’t object either and the first spell she casts is powerful enough that the walls of the room shake. 

“C’mon,” Emma mumbles, lacing her fingers through Killian’s. He doesn’t object, just follows her lead and she’s fairly certain Ruby notices them. She doesn’t say anything. 

Eventually Emma will have to thank her for that. 

As it is, she’s focused on keeping her steps even and her eyes up, the magic rushing through her making it difficult to stay upright. She’s definitely sweating. “Where are you, where are you, where are you,” she mumbles, kicking at the stone wall they’ve stopped in front of.

“Is this the part where I start to worry if the magic has gone to your brain, Swan?”  
  
“Yeah, you're hysterical.”  
  
“What is it we’re looking for?”  
  
“When I was a kid,” Emma starts, pressing her fingers into a loose stone. It moves. “And I was trying to figure out ways to get out of the castle...I started finding all these different passageways and this one--” She pushes again, a soft whoop of triumph when she nudges the stone enough and the entire wall moves, a slim opening that she all but yanks Killian through. “--leads out to the gardens and another small hole in another wall that George never knew about.”  
  
“George really was the worst king in the world, wasn’t he?”  
  
“Are you not impressed by my tactical knowledge of this castle?”

Killian chuckles, crowding into Emma’s space and his breath is warm when he presses a kiss to the edge of her jaw. “Aye, love,” he promises. “You’d make a very good pirate, you know that?”

“That’s the plan, at least.”

He kisses her once more, thumb dragging across the skin of her wrist and Emma knows he can feel her pulse hammering just underneath his touch. She likes to imagine he smiles, fluttering her fingers until the small ball of light in her palm illuminates his face and she was right. 

That’s enough to almost make her confident this will work. 

“You want to go destroy all of darkness?” Emma asks, misplaced levity in a dusty hallway no one else has ever used. 

Killian nods. “Absolutely.”

* * *

It takes them more time than Emma would like to get out of the castle. There are people everywhere – shouts and cries, tears and curses and she was right about the pitchforks, which is a little disappointing considering the current quest she’s staging, but she supposes defeating the darkness will help fix that problem. 

It’s just a matter of finding it. 

She and Killian are standing in the middle of town, his thumb still moving over his wrist like he can’t stop himself, and there’s no sign of anything remotely magical. Except her. Emma’s magic thrums through her, a beat to it that feels like a metronome and sounds like her pulse, steady and determined and--  
  
“--Oh, we are idiots,” Emma sighs, rolling her whole head back when she realizes. 

“That’s not doing a lot to inspire much confidence in the success of this plan, Swan.”  
  
“Why did we ever leave that field?”  
  
“Because the Dark One was inciting rumors and George’s underling had offered a considerable amount of gold for my head.”  
  
“That’s where he is.”  
  
“August the underling?”  
  
“The Dark One,” Emma sighs, jumping slightly like that will help work out some of the excess magic and emotion running through her. Killian arches an eyebrow. “That’s--if that was a goddess, then she picked that place for a reason. A place she said we would be comfortable because we’d--”

“--Fallen in love there,” Killian breathes, and Emma refuses to be held accountable for whatever her magic does at those words in that specific order. 

“Exactly. And the Dark One would know that too. That was...a goddess would be powerful magic. She said she was breaking the rules. That would leave a mark.”

Killian considers that for a moment, gaze flitting across Emma’s face and she’s not entirely sure what he’s looking for, but she’s fairly certain he finds it when one side of his mouth tugs up. He holds his hand out towards her. “Let’s go, love.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Blink and get us there. If you’re right--and I’m sure you’re right--”  
  
“--It’s a hunch.”

Killian clicks his tongue when she keeps interrupting him, but there’s a sudden and rather jarring weight in Emma’s stomach and it takes her a moment to realize what it is. Dread. As if something is about to go horribly, terribly wrong. “Do you know when I realized I loved you?” Killian asks, and Emma lets out a shaky breath. 

“What?”  
  
“You’re repeating yourself, darling.”  
  
“You’re not making any sense.”  
  
“I am,” he promises. “Because if I’m following the train of thought you haven’t actually voiced yet, you think that field is a bit more powerful because it’s also holding on to a bit of True Love. Like the sword.”  
  
Emma blinks. And opens her mouth. Only to close it. Killian chuckles, a quick twist of eyebrows that probably shouldn’t be nearly that attractive, but they’ve gotten very good at flirting during the least opportune moments and Emma can’t ever really think coherently when his fingers find their way under her shirt. 

His shirt. 

She’s wearing all his clothes. 

“You didn’t answer my question, Swan,” Killian continues. “Although I do very much enjoy when you get that specific look.”  
  
“Which is?”  
  
“Like you’re rather stunned by me. Does wonders to my ego.” She scoffs, but she can’t actually argue with him and-- “It was years ago,” he says, voice going low and gruff and there’s an emotion there that Emma isn’t sure actually has a name. “And I’d been spending most of my time at the docks and it was getting more and more difficult to get away. I don’t think I’d seen you in weeks and I was going crazy. Liam was--oh, he was furious. I kept talking about you and he was worried we were going to draw attention and George was going to realize and--”  
  
“--I remember that,” Emma whispers, another interruption, but her heart feels like it’s growing and she has to keep licking her lips. She’s breathing out of her mouth. “That one captain--what was his name?”

“Teach. Edward Teach.”  
  
“Gods, he was the worst.” Killian hums, lips still quirked up. “And you were...you sent that message and, oh Mary Margaret will be mad I don’t remember the name of the bird. But, um...you said you didn’t think you’d be able to get away and it was your birthday and--”  
  
“--No one remembered, but you. Liam was stationed on the other side of the city and he’d been there for days, couldn’t get back home. And you showed up, magic falling off you in waves I swore I could see, moved your hand and told Edward Teach to go to the deepest circle of hell.”

“I don’t think that’s how I phrased it, exactly.”  
  
Killian shakes his head, fingertips ghosting over Emma’s cheek the jut of her lower lip. She’s not doing a very good job of breathing anymore. “That’s exactly what you said,” he mutters. “Froze him and cursed him up and down, told him what a worthless sot he was and how little he deserved, then flicked your fingers so he wouldn’t remember a thing about it. It was the most incredible thing I’d ever seen. We got that melted chocolate after. And you put cinnamon in it.”  
  
“I think you’re giving me far too much credit.”  
  
“I’m not, love. I’m--David’s made jokes, but that...it was if something flipped or switched or--” He swallows, the muscles in his throat shifting and his lips part slightly when he rests his forehead against Emma’s. “I know my brother loved me. I know he did the best he could to protect me, but you...Emma. Nothing’s ever been like that. I don’t think it ever will.”  
  
Emma’s eyes close, and it’s not on purpose. She wishes she kept them open, if only to make sure she remembers the moment perfectly because the moment feels a little perfect and the pull of her magic is different than it’s ever been. 

It’s not scalding heat, but a low simmer, a pattern to it that inches through her limbs and climbs up her muscles, settles into every open space and dark corner. Her hands shift, moving to rest flat on Killian’s chest, as if she’s trying to feel the very rhythm of his heart. She kisses exactly where her lips land, finding a bit of skin under a shirt that’s cut far too deep and the ends of Killian’s jacket flutter when the air shifts. 

It’s not wind. 

It’s magic. 

“I love you,” she whispers, Killian’s hand moving to the curve of her hip and the small of her back and she fully expects an answer. 

She doesn’t get it. 

The dread she’d almost forgotten about grows, rushing up the back of her throat until it becomes impossible to say anything else and Emma’s eyes squeeze tight against the push of power wrapping around her. She has to glance down to make sure she hasn’t been thrown in icy waters, a chill spreading through her, and her clothes are still dry, but she’s not standing on dirty streets anymore. 

There’s dead grass under her boots, a field that looks as if its been deprived of sunlight for years and Emma’s gasp isn’t quite that. It’s disappointment and terror and the sudden realization that everything she believed in that place has been twisted and turned and the laughter she hears grates on her ears. 

Killian’s sword looks dim in the shadows they’ve suddenly found themselves in. 

“I’m sorry to break up that whole….thing,” the Dark One says, sitting cross-legged on a tree stump that wasn’t there the day before, “but I was getting a little impatient. And you did make it very easy to find you.”  
  
Emma tilts her head, fingers twitching at her side. The ball of light bounces there, not quite as strong as usual and that’s very likely a problem, but she’s also doing a fairly a god awful job of not staring at the person in front of her. 

Person might not be the right word. 

He doesn’t look human either and it’s different than the not-witch, goddess, _whatever_. He’s exactly what Killian described, skin that glistens, even in the darkness, as if it’s only capable of reflecting that, hair that hangs limply on the side of his head and Emma’s fairly certain the nails on his fingers are black. 

His smile stretches across his face slowly, every one of his teeth bared and Emma resists the feeling that she’s some kind of magical prey. She inhales sharply, straightening her shoulders and lifting her hand. 

The Dark One’s eyebrows jump. “What are you going to do to me, dearie? I’m afraid I’ve got control of the situation here.”  
  
“That’s not true,” Emma argues, but the words feel a little empty and they were supposed to get to the field on their own. They weren’t supposed to get yanked there. “How did you find us?”  
  
“I told you that already.”  
  
“Once more with feeling, then.”  
  
He lets out a peal of laughter and everything is so _different_ , she’s certain they must have fallen into one of those other realms Regina had been talking about. “No, no, no,” the Dark One says. “You don’t get to issue commands here, your highness. I am the one in control and I’m the one who’s going to take your magic. You’re smart, I know you realize this has to happen.”

“That’s not what the prophecy said.”

“Eh, prophecy is always up for debate. And things have already been broken, haven’t they? Covert meetings with those who weren’t supposed to interject.” He tuts under his breath, a quick wave of his finger. “That’s not particularly good work there, Savior.”  
  
“But you knew. About the sword. That’s why you didn’t kill Killian.”

The Dark One freezes. And Killian tenses slightly, the word tasting bitter on Emma’s tongue as soon as she closes her mouth. She reaches behind her, fingers brushing over his and, for maybe the first time, it’s almost difficult to catch his hand in hers. 

“Smart princess,” the Dark One muses, hopping off the stump with an alarming amount of grace. Killian lifts his sword higher, but that only earns them a scornful sound and pointed glare and the laugh is starting to sound a little manic now. “It’s true, I did have some concern regarding your pirate’s sword. And I will admit that blade does make me a little nervous, but I’d like to get a few things out of the way first.”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
He smiles. It makes Emma shiver. “The current state of upheaval in your kingdom. Not particularly pleasant, is it?”  
  
“How do you do that?” Emma asks, eyes flitting around like she’ll be able to find an exit or another weapon and the Dark One won’t stop smiling at her. 

“The power of suggestion is very strong against the weak-minded, your highness, and you, unfortunately are the ruler of a kingdom of exceptionally weak minds. Add in a little bit of magic to spread the rumors quickly and, well, it was almost too easy to suggest that you lot had caused George to lock himself in his rooms, primed to take over a kingdom based solely on the strength of your magic.”  
  
“So you cursed them?”

He clicks his tongue, a quick shrug and one eye squeezed close. “That’s a matter of debate, I suppose.”  
  
“Sounds like a yes,” Killian sneers, and the Dark One actually jumps with something that Emma hopes isn’t actually joy. His fingers press together, as if he’s praying to someone or, possibly, just his own magic and his entire expression goes greedy when he looks at Killian. 

“Oh, well, you’re a delight aren’t you? Very protective. Very determined. Almost ready to put his life on the line for his magical Savior, yes?”  
  
“You’re not winning,” Emma says, not quite an objection, more an announcement that she’s only a little hopeful is based on fact. Killian’s arm must be aching. “We--I’m here, we’ve got a weapon, we’ve got my magic. You can’t possibly do anything.”

He doesn’t laugh. And that’s the worst it’s been. It’s deafening silence, heavy and meaningful and every step the Dark One takes forward leaves a trail of dead grass and colorless flowers in his wake, as if the life force of every single thing around him wilts in his very presence. 

Emma swallows. 

“And yet, dearie,” the Dark One says, leaning into Emma’s space with breath that makes her gag, “here I am. A plan decades in the making coming to perfect fruition. You’ve set it all up for me, an instruction manual if you will. I want your True Love, yes. I crave it even, know what I can do with it and the power I can contain. Because I can contain it. You...your highness, you’re far too weak. Overwhelmed by emotions and devotions--” He chuckles again, a low jump and rattle of his head. “Ah, I made a rhyme. You can’t control yourself, your highness. You needed someone else to help you and that will be your undoing. You’re powerful because you care and because you care I can defeat you.”

“That’s not true,” Emma hisses. Her magic roars, defiant and powerful and she can hear the crunch of Killian’s boots when he moves next to her. “Love’s not weakness. It’s strength and you’re all alone aren’t you? Nothing and no one and just your power. Has it been worth it?”

The smile flickers. 

Emma laughs softly. “You thought you could take me,” she says, “threaten this kingdom and the people we’ve all been trying to save. Was that really your plan? It’s lacking a bit of bite isn’t it?”

She glances at Killian, a glint of something that might be pride on the edge of his gaze. He presses the tip of his tongue into the corner of his mouth, nodding quickly and Emma doesn’t think she imagines the way the shadows at their feet recede slightly. 

“You do bring up a very interesting point, love,” Killian mutters. “Although it does beg one rather large question.”  
  
“Which is?”  
  
“Why did he wait?  
  
The shadows grow again. And the Dark One tilts his head, more appraising than threatening, as if he’s surprised Killian could show such curiosity in the face of ultimate evil and far-too-long discussions. “Because I’m greedy, Captain,” the Dark One replies. “And it drove you to distraction. Wondering, waiting, bated breath for when I’d, finally, arrive. I want your True Love and I want the Savior’s magic. I want to take it and use it. I want this kingdom and every kingdom. I want what is rightfully mine. And I was willing to wait for it, if that meant that her power grew. True Love, it’s the strongest magic in the world, even George, idiot that he was, knew that.”  
  
“But you didn’t kill me.”  
  
“Yes, I was waiting for the opportune moment.”  
  
“What?” Emma shouts, terror coloring every letter and the light in her hand flares brighter than it’s ever been. 

“You have two choices, Savior. You acquiesce to me, you help me, and we use your magic together. Or, I take your magic by force, including the spark of your True Love, and lay waste to your kingdom and every single thing you’ve ever held dear. Because, as you were so quick to point out, for that little orphan no one ever wanted, you’ve certainly managed to collect quite a lot of love in your life, haven’t you? And it all centers around him.”

Killian tries to step in front of Emma. She rolls her eyes. “No,” she sneers. “I’m--I’m going to defeat you and the darkness and we’re going to take back our kingdom and--”  
  
“--Well,” the Dark One cuts in with a shrug, “your choice. You probably should have been the one holding the weapon, Savior.”

She genuinely has no idea what happens next. 

It’s awful, that’s all she knows. Because one moment Emma is leaning back, trying to get away from the foul stench wafting off the Dark One and the next there’s a cry piercing the air and her heart in equal measure, a flash of light and surge of magic that makes every blade of grass on that hill bend, Killian crashing to his knees with his left arm clutched to his chest and it takes Emma a moment to realize the color seeping onto his shirt is red. 

Blood. 

He’s bleeding. 

And the Dark One is holding his sword. 

The sound of triumph that echoes around her makes Emma’s lungs feel as if they’re collapsing, the noise bouncing off her brain and every single molecule that she’s made of. The Dark One shakes the blade slightly, drops of blood flicking off it and more than a few land on Killian’s cheek. There’s blood everywhere. 

He rests his weight on the sword, the tip of it pressed into dead grass and Emma hasn’t moved. She hasn’t started breathing again. It hurts. 

“Emma,” Killian breathes, face going pale and the sound of her name breaks her out of her reverie. “Emma.”  
  
She gulps down a few breaths of air, dropping to her knees as well and it takes a moment to pull his arm towards her. “Oh,” she says, tears staining her vision and blood staining her shirt. The warmth of it seems counterproductive and a little unfair, all things considered, but the Dark One is still laughing gleefully and Emma doesn’t understand what’s just happened. “It’s ok,” she continues, “it’s ok, you’re going to be ok.”

The Dark One stops laughing. “I’m not sure that’s true there, dearie. In fact, I’m fairly certain our good pirate captain is well on his way to dying.”

* * *

Emma shakes her head. She can’t come up with anything else to do because part of her refuses to accept the possibility of that and part of her knows it’s not a possibility and Killian’s face keeps getting paler. 

“Look at me, look at me,” she pleads, “You’re ok, you’re going to be ok.”  
  
Killian makes a noise - not quite a scoff and barely more than a shaky exhale. “You’re a Gods awful liar, you know that?”

“Shut up.”  
  
“That’s the princess I know.”  
  
“It’s ok,” Emma says, as if repeating positive words will make sure it’s exactly that. Her shirt is drenched though, blood seeping through the fabric and it’s warm against her own skin, which may be the single worst thing she’s ever experienced. Her fingers move over the blunt end of Killian’s arm, trying to focus her magic and she’d done this before. 

She’d healed him before. 

It hadn’t been this hard before. 

It’s as if there’s an invisible barricade between them, magic bouncing back and shocking her, a current that makes Emma grit her teeth and she can’t stop shaking. 

“Walked right into it,” the Dark One mutters, back on his tree stump with legs kicking out. Emma doesn’t respond, trying to work Killian onto his back so he’ll stop swaying like that and she’s never felt this kind of emptiness before. Her magic has always been at the very center of everything, a steady power she felt she could depend on, even when everything else was going to complete and consistent shit, but she suddenly feels as if her tether to the Earth has been yanked out from her, like she’s floating and impossibly heavy, all at the same time. 

Killian’s eyes flutter. 

“No, no, no,” Emma stammers, voice cracking and tears streaming down her face. Her hands move without much pattern, brushing over his jaw and the stubble there, pushing strands of hair away from his brows and he’s already far too cold. “I’m going to fix this. I am--”  
  
“--You can’t, Savior, that’s the point,” the Dark One says. There’s a rhythm to his words that makes her whole body clench, the joy obvious when he speaks. Because he’s won. And they both know it. 

Emma snaps her head around, trying to find a bit of shirt that isn’t already blood-stained to wrap around Killian’s arm. “What did you do?”

“Is that not obvious?”  
  
The trees around her shake with the force of her anger, darkness creeping into the edge of her vision and the Dark One almost looks impressed. He laughs, at least. “What did you do?” Emma repeats, and a crack runs up the stump. 

“That sword of yours,” the Dark One nods at the discarded blade between them, “very impressive, very magical, entirely capable of destroying me. And your rather magicless pirate. Who, it seems, is no longer that intent on maintaining his mortal ties.”  
  
Emma’s brows furrow, confusion turning to horrific understanding. “Cut ties,” she mumbles, memories of the words they’d heard in same field the day before. The Dark One nods. 

“Yes, yes, exactly that. It would very easily destroy me, which, again--rather foolish not to hold a weapon like that yourself, don’t you think, Savior?” He shrugs, a click of his tongue and another soft chuckle. Emma turns away from him. “Anyway,” he adds, “you made it almost too easy. As soon as you objected to my incredibly generous deal, I simply had to get the sword from your pirate, who presented a rather small challenge, then get rid of...part of him and now his life force isn’t much longer for this Earthly plane. I do hope he’ll enjoy the Underworld, though.”  
  
Emma exhales, head feeling too heavy for her neck. It falls forward, the ends of her hair grazing over Killian’s chest, and she doesn’t realize he’s trying to move at first. He’s mumbling under his breath, fingers flexing at his side and the tiny bit of light that lingers around them reflects off the stone in her ring. 

“It’s ok,” she says again, angry that she can’t come up with anything else to say. 

“Emma--”

“--No, listen to me, this is--I can fix this and--”  
  
“--Swan,” Killian interrupts, voice barely audible over the ragged sound of her own breathing and she’s far too close to sobbing to be entirely coherent. “It was my fault, love. I should have…”  
  
His voice trails off, and the blood has to stop eventually. She glances around again, looking for something, _anything_ , that will help, but there’s no goddess and no more magic, just a victorious Dark One. 

“You should have come with me from the start, Savior,” the Dark One says. “You would have spared your pirate this rather horrible death. As it is, nothing you are capable of will be able to save him. That’s dark magic.”

“But--that was...we made it.”

“Yes, yes, I know the specifics of it and it’s very impressive, really, a wonderful act of True Love. But think for a moment, Savior. You’re smart, I’m sure you’ll get there.”

“He twisted it,” Killian breathes, and he hasn’t opened his eyes yet. Emma’s not sure he actually can. “When he used it. That’s--”

“--You’d only be able to fix it with the same dark magic,” Emma finishes. 

She shakes her head, another question hanging in the air around her, but the Dark One nods before she can ask. “Ah, you’re wondering about the True Love I wanted, what I was waiting for and all that. Yes, yes, I did consider that and, well--” He lifts both hands in the air. “True Love makes us do incredible things, doesn’t it? It created that blade, after all. And I can save your pirate, Savior. All you have to do is give me a little spark. Let’s see what you can do, shall we?”  
  
Eventually, Emma will be cognizant enough to know that it’s that one, single moment, those few words and strings of sentences that change everything, because the Dark One doesn’t understand _anything_ , but as it is, her magic is too strong and her emotions are too unchecked and she thrusts her hand behind her without much thought to why she can suddenly do what she’s about to. 

The hilt of the sword is cool in her grip, blood still clinging to the blade and Emma rests her free hand on Killian’s chest. She can hardly feel anything under her, but his pulse is still there and he’s so impossibly stubborn. “I love you,” she whispers, and it’s enough to refocus everything, to control the power blazing through her and the Dark One stops laughing as soon as he feels the first tug.

She chances another glance over her shoulder, the man’s hands scrambling for purchase across his chest, as if he’s trying to stop the magic from being pulled out of him, and Emma’s smile feels wrong.

She doesn’t stop. 

She closes her eyes, breathing slowly and deeply, a control to her magic she’s never had – that lets her control all the other magic around her. And it only takes a few moments, the Dark One cursing her to every hell he can seemingly think of, but Emma doesn’t stop. She mumbles quiet promises under her breath, guarantees she’s only half hopeful she can make, counting every shift in Killian’s breathing. 

And then it’s over. 

The screech the Dark One lets out ricochets around him, sending birds from trees as he falls down, fingers clawing at the dirt and the back of his hair. “Give it back,” he screams, eyes going crazed as soon as he looks at Emma. “Give it back!”  
  
She shakes her head slowly, the sword in her hand noticeably heavier with the weight of the Dark One’s magic contained in its blade. 

“Now,” he continues, stamping his foot and he looks almost human again. The shimmer in his skin has disappeared, a grey pallor clinging to him, as if he hasn’t slept in eons and that scent still hangs around him. “Do it, now!”  
  
“No,” Emma whispers. She turns her gaze back to Killian, smile softening and her magic hasn’t calmed at all. It roars and shifts, stronger than that tide Emma had been so content to listen to the night before, a decision she knows she shouldn’t make, but one she’s certain will work. “Killian,” she continues, “Look at me, please.”

It’s more begging, words not befit of a Savior, but Emma doesn’t feel like that now and she genuinely does not care. Magic can disappear. The kingdom can tear itself apart. The world can tumble around her. It feels that way already anyway. 

“I’m going to save you,” she says, another promise and Killian’s eyes snap open. He can’t actually shake his head. He tries anyway. 

And the bleeding has almost stopped. 

Emma tries not to think about all the reasons for that. 

Killian’s eyes flicker towards the sword in her hand, her arm shaking as she tries to hold it up. “No, no, Swan, don’t, that’s--” He hisses in pain, the feel of it obvious on every inch of his face. “You have to let me go, love. The darkness...you’ve got to get rid of it.”  
  
She shakes her head again, petulant and defiant and her magic rebels against it. She’s not actually saying anything, so she knows she’s not still begging, but it feels like her magic is speaking to her, quiet and imploring and everything that happens next is wrong. 

Emma is wrong. 

“Killian--”  
  
“--I don’t want it, Emma,” he mumbles, lips barely moving to let the sound out. His eyes keep losing focus. “Not for us. I don’t want to become that.”

“You won’t. You won’t! I--I won’t let it happen. I’ll...we’ll figure something else out. There’s got to be something else. Together, right? That’s--” Her voice catches, as if her throat is shrinking, but that may just be her heart and Emma’s fingers shake when they move back to Killian’s cheek. “It’s always been that, right?”  
  
“Aye, love. And that’s meant everything, but this is--I’m not strong enough for that, Emma. I won’t be able to do it. I’m not...I never had magic.”

She licks her lips, trying to touch as much as of him as she can, as if she’s taking stock or already making up for lost time and his hand finds hers as soon as she moves towards his fingers. His grip is barely that. “But our future,” she says. “That’s--you promised, you were going to ask.”  
  
The blood has stopped gushing, but there’s a definite darkness to the end of his arm now, as if the skin itself is rejecting the magic there and Emma is certain she’s never heard a sound quite as horrible as the cry Killian lets out then. His face distorts in agony, head lolling to the side and his eyes close again. 

“You can’t, Swan. That’s...you’ll have a future, love. That’s all that matters.”

“No, no, no,” Emma mumbles, hand flying back to his cheek and the skin there has gone clammy. “That’s not enough for me!”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. And Emma doesn’t hold her breath because she’s frozen entirely – like time has stopped and the world has stopped and she has no idea where the Dark One has gone. He’s not really the Dark One anymore. 

And she’s already decided, so Emma can’t say it’s much of a choice, but her resolve shudders for a moment and it’s difficult to hold the sword. She lets her thumb drift across Killian’s cheeks, fingers lingering there for a moment and she isn’t entirely sure what to do. 

She holds the sword up, both hands wrapped around the hilt as she focuses on separating the light from the dark, tendrils of magic working their way up the blade and reaching out towards Killian. The tears keep falling on Emma’s cheeks, giving into selfish want and ignoring prophecy and it doesn’t take long, but it feels like it lasts forever and there’s a flash of light and burst of cold air and she only realizes her eyes were closed when she opens them to find Killian gone. 

* * *

She sits there. And waits. For hours, days, maybe. It doesn’t matter. 

Emma sits in that field with its dead grass and colorless flowers, shrubs with brown leaves and the lingering scent of death hanging above her head, and nothing happens. No one comes. 

He doesn’t come back. 

* * *

Emma doesn’t count the days. It’s definitely been days, though. There’s been at least two sunrises that she’s aware of and it takes her a moment to realize there’s someone else standing in the field. 

It’s not Killian. 

It’s a woman. And she’s not old, but she’s not young either, a feel to her that makes Emma certain time doesn’t have much of an impact. She moves forward with sure steps, made all the more impressive by the band around her eyes. 

She’s blind. 

And Emma knows who she is without asking. 

The Seeress. The prophecy. And everything Emma did wrong, come to lay claim on her. 

“Savior,” the seeress says, and Emma hears the title for the disappointment it holds. She tilts her head, letting her cheek rest on her bent knees and she can’t remember the last time she stood up. “You have to call him back here.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“The Dark One.”  
  
“The Dark One ran away,” Emma says. “I pulled his magic from him and--”  
  
“--Created another Dark One,” the Seeress snaps, an edge to the words that makes the hair on the back of Emma’s neck stand up. Her magic reacts for the first time in days. She hasn’t let go of the sword. “You created another Dark One and failed to fulfill the prophecy you were born to serve. That must not happen.”  
  
Emma scoffs, derision and her own particular brand of disappointment because-- “Fuck the prophecy,” she hisses. “And fuck every one of those expectations. I’m not--I couldn’t let him die.”

“Wouldn’t,” the Seeress amends. “There’s a stark difference, Savior.”  
  
“God, stop using that.”  
  
“You need to call the Dark One here. Now.”

She nods at the sword and for something Emma hasn’t let go of in days, she’s incredibly unobservant. It’s probably the lack of food. Mary Margaret would be disappointed. In several things. The blade itself had always been carved, an intricacy to it that didn’t befall a Lieutenant, but that’s never mattered and-- “Why is his name on here?” Emma demands, jerking her head up towards a sullen looking Seeress. 

Her hands are covering her eyes now. 

“It’s his,” she answers simply. “And you can call him with it.”

Emma opens her mouth to object, but something in the back of her brain stops her from actually voicing those words. “Killian,” she calls. “Killian, I--if you’re there, I--”  
  
“--No, Savior,” the Seeress interrupts, and they’re apparently back to _that_ particular tone of voice. “You need to call _him_. Not what you want. What you have to destroy.”

Emma’s spine snaps, as if she’s been called to attention. Her head shakes, but part of her knows it’s right and she’s wrong. Gods, she’s crying again. “Dark One,” she says. “I...summon thee. Here, now.”

It’s not immediate. And the waiting is the worst, that flicker of silence and hope that maybe, _maybe_ , everything hasn’t dissolved into chaos, but then Emma can feel a push and a pulse and she wonders if that’s what Killian’s felt all these years. 

Her mouth goes dry. 

He’s him and he’s not – the jacket looking heavier and the sword belt at his waist strangely empty. He tilts his head when he looks at her, as if he’s surprised to see her, and the color of his eyes is all wrong, a steel that doesn’t make the stutter of Emma’s pulse turn steady. It jumps in her veins and thuds against her rib cage, a nervousness she’s never had because she can feel the rush of magic around them. 

And it isn’t hers. 

“Killian,” she breathes, rocking forward and he doesn’t take a step back. He arches an eyebrow, barely visible over the hair falling across his forehead. “It worked.”  
  
“Oh, aye, it worked,” he snarls. “After begging you not to do this, desperate not to become the one thing you’re supposed to destroy--here I am, ready to do your bidding.”

Emma gasps, not surprised by the words. They hurt all the same, cutting across her and leaving her wondering if she’s adding to the blood stains on the shirt she’s never bothered to change out of. “That was the only way,” she whispers. “My magic, it wouldn’t--”  
  
“--Oh, yes, I know all the reasons, Emma! Trust me, I’ve heard them on loop for the past several days. But tell me something, darling, where is my tether, hmmm?”

She licks her lips, standing up slowly, with the sword held in one hand. Her knees crack. “I don't want it,” she says. “It’s yours...I--that future we talked about, the one you wanted...we can still have that.”

“You think I didn’t want that?”  
  
“I don’t--”  
  
“--Gods, Emma, that’s all I wanted,” Killian shouts. “For--since the very start. More than anything.” He takes a step towards her, fingers tapping out an incoherent rhythm at his side, and Emma lets out a shuddering breath as soon as he’s in her space. 

The color of his eyes is all wrong. 

“We can do this,” she promises, reach up to rest her hand on his cheek. He turns from her touch, glancing over his shoulder at something that isn’t there. The seeress hasn’t moved. Or spoken. “Killian,” Emma continues, “We can--”  
  
“--No, Savior,” the seeress says, a finality in her voice and Emma’s magic flares. Killian’s eyes widen, a sneer on his lips. 

The magic around him is cold. As if it’s not alive. As if it’s stuck in a shadow, away from the sun.

“No,” the seeress repeats, “you can’t do this. The darkness must be destroyed. Otherwise everything will turned to disaster and magic itself will be destroyed. You have to use the sword. It will cut the ties of darkness. It will rid the world of it forever.”  
  
Emma shakes her head, more defiance and the absolute refusal to do what the world expects of her. Not when it will cost her this. Not when it will cost her Killian. 

“I love you,” she says, doing her best to press the words past the magic she can feel fighting against her. “Killian. I--every single time, right?”

He blinks, expression shifting between confusion and anger and back to something that’s achingly familiar, memories Emma needs him to remember and cling to. “I want the sword, Emma,” he says, voice turning again and she lets out a breath her lungs likely needed. 

“Ok,” she nods. “Here.”  
  
Killian’s fingers curl around the hilt, brushing against hers, but there’s no feeling there, no spark, just a stretch of emptiness that feels impossibly vast and even darker than that, disappointment and anger and she’s _wrong_. He nods once, another flicker of _something_ that makes her hope and want, but then there’s magic swirling at her feet and the seeress has fallen to the ground and Killian is gone. 

With the sword. 

“You’ve made a mistake, Emma,” the seeress says, the words shaking with the force of the tears falling from unseeing eyes. 

And Emma barely has time to process that, before she hears it – a wave of magic that’s moving towards her, cresting over the line of the town and pushing over everything in its path. It doesn’t slow. It doesn’t stop. It keeps rolling, lightning crackling in the cloud it creates and Emma wishes, eventually, she’ll stop simply realizing thing. 

It’s a curse. 

“Ah, Gods--” she groans, gritting her teeth when the cloud passes over her and it’s the last thing she remembers. 

* * *

She knocks on the door in front of her, tugging lightly on the red leather jacket and the walkie-talkie at her waist makes a noise that can’t possibly be right. Emma sighs, knocking once more, but there’s no response and she didn’t really think there would be. 

The walkie talkie does something again. 

“What, David?” she asks, pulling the thing up to her mouth and she’s only a little nervous it’s going to short-circuit in her hand. 

“You get anything out there?”  
  
“You know, this would go easier if you weren’t interrupting me every two seconds.”  
  
“Ah, c’mon, I’m worried about you,” he reasons. “It’s weird on the edge of town and you know how everyone’s magic has been acting lately.”  
  
Emma hums into the speaker, well aware of the inconsistencies in her own magic, as if it’s struggling to respond to anything she wants it to do. As if she’s running out of it. “I know, I know,” she grumbles. “I’ll be careful out here, I promise. It’s a quick in and out, just dealing with that complaint about noise at the house.”  
  
“Regina wants it taken care of quickly.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you can tell madam mayor that it’ll take as long as--”

“--Who’s out there?” a voice calls from behind the door, and Emma sighs when David actually has the gall to laugh. 

“Mr. Smee, it’s Emma,” she answers, but that only gets her a slightly drunken noise and she’s starting to wonder if she’ll be able to magic the door away. “You know who I am, Mr. Smee, I know you do. Sheriff Swan? C’mon, we’ve got to come to some kind of agreement about how loudly you’ve been singing when you’ve been drinking.”  
  
The whole thing is relatively easy – she only has to use _some_ magic, which is only _slightly_ exhausting, but David stops interrupting her eventually and Emma’s fairly confident she can get through the paperwork quickly enough, driving back into the center of town with enough ease that she doesn’t notice the first flicker of magic that’s wrapped itself around the _Welcome to Storybrooke_ sign she’s just passed. 

She notices later. When the man walks across the line, hands resting on his cane and the demand he keeps repeating over and over.  
“I want the Savior!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, the stuff. It happened. There was a reason the bodega cat didn't like Killian either. Thanks for reading. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	12. Chapter 12

_Present Day, Track 61_

She shakes her head. 

Once. Twice. Again. Over and over, strands of hair hitting against her cheek and the side of her jaw and every single shift makes the muscles in her neck ache, but Emma can’t seem to stop and if she keeps shaking her head then, she’s sure, eventually, some of this will settle. 

Some of this will make sense. 

“Holy shit,” she mumbles again, mostly to herself. Killian’s lips twitch. 

She hasn’t actually blinked yet, certain if she does he’ll disappear or she’ll disappear or another goddamn curse will get cast. “How--” Emma starts, the rest of the words getting caught in her throat and that is so ridiculously disappointing. 

She exhales, as if she’s been running and maybe that’s the best metaphor for it, because her heart is beating an irregular rhythm and it feels as if it’s fallen into her stomach. She clacks her teeth, the ache in her neck moving to her jaw. 

Killian hasn’t moved – except for the slight twist of his mouth and the almost unnoticeable curve of his right eyebrow. It arches slightly, behind a few strands of hair that have fallen across his forehead and the memories in Emma’s mind are suddenly very loud. 

As if someone has turned them up. 

Surround-sound memories in perfect resolution and stunning high definition. 

That makes them infinitely worse. 

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”  
  
“You’re going to have to come up with another string of expletives eventually,” Killian drawls. He doesn’t take a step forward, could be cemented to go the ground for all Emma knows. He just stands there, watching her, eyes narrow and gaze drifting dangerously close to penetrating and she wishes her heart would relax. 

She wishes her magic would stop.  
  
It rattles around in her, like she’s empty of everything else, the feel of it bouncing off muscles and veins and twisting in between bones. It hangs off internal organs and possibly her misplaced heart, soft bursts that feel like fireworks going off under her skin. 

A warning. 

That’s what it is. 

Her magic is trying to warn her. Of what is standing right in front of her. 

_Who._

No, what. Definitely what. 

Emma inhales sharply, realization stabbing at the back of her consciousness and she finally meets Killian’s gaze. The smile that moves across his face is slow, measured and a little calculating. It’s not right. 

But then again, none of this is right and his knuckles have gone white around the sword in his hand. His eyes are darker again. 

“This is real?”  
  
Killian nods slowly. “Aye, incredibly real. Interesting isn’t it?”  
  
“Interesting.  
  
“Supremely,” he says, and the magic around him gets sharper. Emma can see it, bits of shadow that creep up his side and wrap around his left ankle, trailing up his side and curling around both his shoulders. It lingers just under his ear, makes his whole posture change – straighter shoulders and sharper lines. None of it matches up with what she remembers. Or what she wants. Gods, that’s greedy. 

She’s been exceptionally greedy. 

“How?”  
  
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Killian mutters, and the voice is wrong too. There’s _some_ of him there, Emma can hear it. Little inflections and the tip of his tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth. But the rest is off, a hardness to it that makes her skin crawl because she knows it’s directed at her. 

For what she did. 

The air on track 61 is suddenly very heavy. 

And she knows it’s because of the magic. Their magic. Collectively. 

“How are you here?” Emma asks, pleasantly surprised by how even her voice is. 

Killian’s smile widens. And it’s another memory, another mistake and wrong, wrong, _wrong_. There’s no warmth to it, nothing except a shadow and a shift and the general feeling of the phrase _holy shit_ over and over again. “You sound disappointed, love.”  
  
“Are you fucking kidding me?”  
  
“Ah, there’s the other expletives I was waiting for.”  
  
She huffs, whatever emotions had been lingering at the base of her spine turning, rather suddenly, to complete and total anger. That’s unexpected. 

In the grand scheme of everything, Emma didn’t expect to be royally pissed off at Killian Jones.

_The Dark One_. 

Killian is the Dark One. And he’s still holding that goddamn sword like it’s the only thing that makes sense. Like it’s the only thing that matters. 

“How are you here?” Emma repeats. “You left.”  
  
The words hurt. That was almost expected. Because the memories are coming quicker now – bits and pieces that fall back into place and settle into the very center of Emma’s soul and she juts her chin out slightly like that will make her more impressive or confident. 

She knows it doesn’t work when Killian’s eyebrow only gets higher, eyes narrowing even more when he rocks forward slightly. And for half a second she truly believes he’s going to move. She thinks he’s going to take a step forward and tell her what she wants to hear and _every single time_ echoes in her, a wisp of want and hint of something bigger than that, but then he settles on his heels and twists the sword so the blade rests on his shoulder and the laugh that falls out of him makes goosebumps explode on Emma’s skin. 

_Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong._

“Oh, Emma,” he chuckles, and it takes her a moment to realize he keeps using her name. He hasn’t called her _Swan_ once. “That’s not what happened.”  
  
“So tell me!”

“You honestly don’t know?”  
  
She scowls, hands fisting at her side, which only seems to amuse Killian. He keeps laughing, low and mocking, with his fingers fluttering on the hilt of the sword. “Obviously,” she sneers. “Tell me what happened to you, Killian.”  
  
He stops laughing. It’s abrupt, a sudden switch, as if something had been flipped off, and the eyes that had been barely more than slits on his face widen to a size that can’t possibly be good for his retinas. 

Emma stands up a little taller. 

“You, Emma,” he says, low and, maybe, a little disappointed. She’s going to chew her lower lip in half. “You happened.”  
  
“I don’t--”  
  
“Oh, I know you don’t, your highness. Because it didn’t matter to you, did it?”  
  
“What didn’t?”  
  
“Me,” Killian snaps, and she doesn’t stumble backwards. She can’t. Her legs lock and her knees snap into place, swallowing back her immediate retort because part of her wonders if he’s almost right. “Not really. Not when it mattered. It was--”  
  
“--I was trying to save you,” Emma interrupts. There goes calm. The words fly out of her, manic and desperate and she’s moving before she’s realized her mind has even considered that as an option, stepping into his space and reaching out like that’s something she’s capable of doing.

Killian flinches. 

And the whole thing is so...strange. 

That’s a terrible word for it. It’s not just strange. It’s horrible and awful and a little life-altering because the memories that have finally calmed a bit don’t match up with the man in front of her. Because the man in front of her doesn’t make any sense. 

He is and isn’t. The shadows are there, and Emma knows they’re trying to cling to him, to hold onto something mortal and corruptible. But there’s also little bits of something else, flashes of feeling in his gaze and the way he’d kissed her, his own particular brand of desperate because he’d _wanted_ her to remember and needed her to trust him and that’s always been the case. 

“You knew,” Emma says, soft like that will help calm whatever tempest she can see raging on Killian’s face. She reaches out again, slowly, fingers curling around the open front of his jacket and he doesn’t move. 

He doesn’t pull away or flinch. He’s frozen, save for the shift of his throat and when he swallows the muscle in his temple that jumps, the pinch between his eyebrows returning because he’s fighting and trying and her mind keeps returning to strange. 

“Knew what?” 

“Me,” Emma whispers. “Just now. Before we came here. You--you remembered it. The dock. My magic. You said the sun was there, but it wasn’t just the sun, it was--”  
  
“--Your magic,” Killian finishes, and she nods. That makes her neck ache too. “It was always your magic, Emma. From the very beginning. 

She hadn’t been holding her breath, so whatever noise she makes at _that_ is absolutely absurd, but Emma’s body doesn’t care and her mind cares even less and she swears she can actually feel her heart jump back up from her stomach to its proper place in her chest. 

She tightens her hold on Killian’s jacket. 

“How?”  
  
“It’s interesting,” Killian repeats, and Emma resists the urge to groan. That would probably frustrate him even more. “The parts that broke through. I didn’t think that would happen.”  
  
“Oh my God, I’m going to curse you!”  
  
“I don’t think you can do that, actually. I’m really rather powerful now, you know.”  
  
She groans. And, as expected, Killian’s magic jumps, the glare he flashes her direction making Emma’s fingers flare at her side. “If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not going to work,” Emma says, the lie almost impossible to say out loud. 

Intimidated isn’t the right word either. 

Strange. 

And so entirely disappointed she’s positive she’ll ache with the weight of it for the rest of her life. 

Killian hums, smile turning sarcastic. “Oh, I’m not. You’re the Savior, Savior. Bound and determined to do the best thing for everyone, to play hero even for those who don’t want it.”

“That’s pointed.”  
  
“And factual.”  
  
Emma sighs, running her hand over her face. It’s probably a mistake – because he is the Dark One and the magic in the air has grown increasingly bitter with every insult thrown her direction, but she also does trust him, _implicitly_ , and it’s so, so strange. 

_Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong._

“I couldn’t let you die.”  
  
“That’s not exactly true is it, darling?” Killian objects, tilting his head so the strands of hair fall even lower and Emma can taste blood in her mouth. His eyes are nearly black. “The seeress was right. You wouldn’t let me die, there’s a distinct difference.”  
  
Emma opens her mouth. And closes it. And shakes her head again. The blood on her lip makes her stomach heave. It’s uncomfortable.

“How?”  
  
“Would you like the whole story or just the high points?” Killian asks. “What’s the last thing you remember? When we were--”  
  
“--Home?”  
  
He clicks his tongue. “I don’t think that word exist anymore.”  
  
“I stayed there,” Emma says, the words not quite shaking, but not entirely steady and she keeps having to lick her lips. “In that field. I don’t--I just sat there. For days, waiting and hoping and--”  
  
“--Ah, that’s your problem, isn’t it?”  
  
“You asked me a question, I am answering it,” she growls, and it’s probably wrong to appreciate the quick spark of _impressed_ that appears in Killian’s gaze. “Stop interrupting.”

He hums, waving the hand that isn’t still holding that stupid sword. There’s not much space between them, and Emma doesn’t remember letting go of his jacket, but it must have happened at some point, because her arms are hanging limply at her side and she’d very much like to sit down. She doesn’t. 

Figures. 

“By your leave, your highness,” Killian mutters. 

“I waited,” Emma continues, and every single letter hurts every single inch of her as soon as she starts speaking again. The memories sting, leave her vision swimming with unshed tears and mistakes she knows have changed the course of everything and she’s got absolutely no idea what to do next. “For days, but you didn’t---well, the seeress showed up and told me what a fucking, God awful person I was and--”

The bitterness in her voice draws another sardonic laugh out of Killian, eyes flitting up towards her from underneath impossibly long eyelashes. “More facts, Emma.”  
  
“Gods, shut up.” 

He winks. And Emma’s hand moves quicker than even she’s entirely prepared for, a surge of heat rushing down her arm and straight out her fingertips. It slams into Killian’s chest with an impossibly loud thud, the air rushing out of him in a huff. He doesn’t fall over – she didn’t really expect him to, was mostly just working out her own anger and disappointment and every single emotion a single human who refused to follow prophecy could feel – but he does look a little stunned and maybe still a little impressed, fingers rubbing lightly at the spot her magic had landed on. 

The charms around his neck have fallen over his shirt. 

“Why didn’t you come back?”  
  
Killian’s eyebrows fly up his forehead, body going tense enough that some of Emma’s anger ebbs. They shouldn’t have come here. 

They shouldn’t have. 

Full stop. 

“Why would I have?” Killian challenges, a string of words that feel as if he’s actually stabbed her with that sword. The stabbing probably would have been less painful. 

Emma’s jaw drops and her shoulders slump and she hates the tears that fall on her cheeks, cursing every bit of weakness as soon as it lands on her skin. She can’t seem to get them to stop though, which is as annoying as it is disappointing, and her magic sputters as soon as the light disappears from her fingers. 

“I wanted to--”  
  
“--Oh, I know what you wanted, Emma. Believe me, I’ve thought of nothing except exactly what you wanted and what you made sure happened for years.”  
  
She nearly falls over. “Years?”  
  
“Longer, love. What feels like a whole lifetime. You didn’t save me, Emma. You cursed me. And I didn’t even get to be part of the fun.”

Emma is going to dislocate her jaw. She assumes she looks marginally ridiculous, opening and closing her mouth like several different fish. But she’s lost control of that as well and Killian’s expression has returned to mocking. 

He keeps fluttering his fingers.  
  
And glancing over her shoulder. There’s nothing there. Except cobwebs.

That’s probably not an actual metaphor. 

“What does that mean?” Emma asks, determined to keep her voice from begging. She’s not sure that works either. 

“I told you already. You asked me what I saw when the seeress showed up in Belle’s kitchen. That’s exactly what I saw. And what I felt, all over again. She wanted that to happen. She’s a rather sharp thorn in my side.”

“I don’t understand.”  
  
“Naturally.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes. “I’m not opposed to hitting you with magic again.”  
  
“Fair,” Killian muses, a quick smile and twist of eyebrows that probably would have worked if they weren’t this. If they were in a realm that refused to foster their magic. Or they both didn’t have magic. Or one of them wasn’t supposed to be dead. “That seeress knows she’s messed up. Again, I told you this already. Things didn’t really go according to her plan and those in the mythical don’t take kindly to their plans being discarded like that.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So,” he echoes, leaning forward and Emma wonders what that noise is. She’s only eighty-two percent certain it’s the sword. She’s going to melt that sword. “You were supposed to destroy Darkness, Emma. That’s the prophecy, right?”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
He chuckles again, clicking his teeth and staring at her like...God, like they’d used true loves kiss to break a memory spell. “I do love it when you get petulant.”  
  
“And you’re still an absolutely atrocious story teller. All over the place plot-wise.”

“You didn’t do your job. It’s that simple. You fucked it all up, Emma. Didn’t listen to me, didn’t listen to the seeress, didn’t even get rid of Rumplestiltskin.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Rumplestiltskin,” Killian repeats. “That piece of shit coward who ran away after you yanked his magic out of him. Impressive job on your part, though.”  
  
“I’ll be honest, it’s less complimentary when you’ve already told me several times how I’ve ruined your life.”  
  
“Ah, well, you did, love, but I accept your point for the fair one it is. Where was I, incidentally?”

Emma scoffs, but that only makes him smile at her and it doesn’t reach his eyes. She wonders if it can. She can’t stop thinking about the color. 

And he went to the water. Even when he was cursed. He remembered her. Even when he was cursed. 

_True love’s kiss_. 

“Ah, that’s right, that’s right, the seeress, and leaving Rumplestiltskin to be a problem for me to sweep up after you disappeared. Well, there wasn’t much progress being made on that prophecy, so the seeress, as I said, she broke some of her own rules. Showed up here and made sure we could remember what we needed to do, but she had to take it a step further, didn’t she? Just to really...drive her point home.”  
  
“What you saw?” Emma ventures, and Killian winks again. The light that explodes in her palm isn’t particularly warm. 

“Tell me something, princess, have you ever been unmade?”  
  
“I don’t--”  
  
“Yes, it was mostly a rhetorical question,” Killian cuts in, and his feet finally start to move again. He circles her, twisting and turning, following a path that isn’t actually there. His shoes kick up clouds of dust, leaving prints on the ground and the squeak whenever he rests his weight on the balls of his feet ricochets off the walls of that abandoned train track. “I realize you’ve never experienced anything quite like that,” Killian continues, “but, thanks to you, I’ve got a rather interesting perspective of it all. Because, here’s the kicker, Emma. You left me. More than once.”

Emma’s mind races. It jumps and leaps and then crashes over the hurdles, only a few feet away from the finish line, leaving her covered in bruises and contusions and she’s probably bleeding rather profusely from both knees just for good measure. 

She hurts. Every part of her, from the top of her hair to the bottom of her heels, like she’s been stretched and knotted. 

She opens her mouth again. 

“That doesn’t make any sense.”  
  
“On the contrary, your highness. You didn’t listen. I begged you, Emma, pleaded, told you that I didn’t want it and you didn’t care. You left me to the darkness, because it’s what _you_ wanted. You wouldn’t let me go and it changed--” He sighs, and for half a moment it’s _him_. It’s the looks Emma remembers and the ones she wants, the one that’s been nudging at the back of her brain since she landed in New York and her magic found him. “Everything,” Killian finishes. “It changed everything. But then you weren’t done, were you?”  
  
“I didn’t cast that curse!”  
  
“And who did?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Liar,” he snarls, and the moment is gone. She knew it would, was almost ready for it to disappear in front of her, but it’s still jarring and she can’t rationalize any of this. The whiplash of it all is exhausting. “It was Regina, it had to be.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
Killian shakes his head, lips pressed together tight enough that it’s difficult to actually see him. “It was a very particular curse, you know. Impressive magic, I’ll have to give my compliments to her highness eventually.”  
  
“Speak English.”  
  
“I am,” he laughs, a smile that makes Emma’s pulse thud. “The curse was very specific about who it brought with it. And I was, unfortunately left off that particular guest list. Because of you, Emma. Because you left me in that darkness, pushed me into the shadows and the magic with both hands until there was no other choice except to be consumed by them.”  
  
Her mouth goes dry. And she’s really going to have to do something about her tongue eventually because it’s getting more and more difficult to swallow, but that might be because of the lump of emotion stuck in the middle of her throat and Emma can feel her eyes bug. 

“What happened?” 

There goes begging. 

“Regina cast the curse,” Killian starts. “The one she’d been talking about before. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”  
  
“How?” Emma argues. “You heard her. The heart of the thing you love the most. That’s--”  
  
“--You notice any heartless people before you landed in Storybrooke?”  
  
“I didn’t...I wasn’t in the castle when the curse was cast. I was still in the field and--” Emma’s throat hurts when she tries to swallow again, another mistake that she should probably be keeping track of at this point. “I wouldn't have left,” she adds. “Not on purpose.”

Killian doesn’t look convinced. He also doesn’t look...not convinced. The double negatives are confusing, but that’s been the theme of the last few minutes and his eyes flicker up again, staring at empty air that smells absolutely awful and Emma swears she can hear the soft pop of his lips when they part. 

“Hey,” she mumbles, not sure why she can’t hold on to one specific emotion either and her fingers wrap around the plastic at the end of his arm before she can stop herself. He freezes. “I wouldn’t have. You have to know that.”  
  
“Let go of me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Give me back my arm, Emma,” Killian says, the acid in his voice enough to make her whole body recoil. “Now.”  
  
She nods dumbly, shaking her hair back onto her neck and unclenching her fingers, moving her hand to her side and pressing her palm against her jeans like that will keep it stuck there. Killian jerks his arm, elbow colliding with his ribs in the process. It’s not particularly dignified or really all that intimidating, another shift between good and bad and right and wrong and his head drops when he takes a deep breath. 

He mumbles something Emma can’t understand. 

“The curse cherry-picked people to bring with it,” Killian says, snapping back up to stare at Emma like that’s intrinsically her fault. It might be. “Only the best and brightest got to go with you lot to the Land Without Magic, leaving the rest of us sad sots to battle it out for our rather disappointing and leaderless lot in life.”  
  
“And that left you…”  
  
“In the shadows, Emma, were you not listening?”

She glares, but he’s still smiling that _wrong_ smile and the tip of his tongue is pressed to the inside of his cheek. She keeps avoiding his eyes. 

“Was Ursula right?” Emma asks. “About you, I mean. What you did.”  
  
“To her or in general?”  
  
“You’re being frustrating on purpose.”  
  
“Yes, absolutely.”

She huffs, far more than just general annoyance and there’s too much going on. In her brain. And in front of her. And the shadows lapping at the edges of her shoes make Emma exceptionally nervous. “How are you here?” 

That’s less begging. More demanding. Killian grins. And laughs. Loudly. 

“Oh, there she is,” he says, head thrown back in a move that’s as manic as anything else he’s done yet. “Self-important princess who only ever thinks about what she wants. You need those answers, don’t you, Emma?”  
  
“That’s ridiculous.”  
  
“Is it?”  
  
“I was trying to save you,” she yells, well aware that it’s more rehash and he still won’t believe her, but she can’t come up with anything else to say and she needs him to, at least, almost understand. “I couldn’t--”  
  
“--No,” Killian interrupts. The shadows leap, landing on his face and the side of his jaw, wrapping around his middle and climbing up both his legs. They make him look heavier, not quite stronger, but certainly more threatening and Emma only stays upright because she’s equal parts stubborn and impossibly determined. “I don’t care what you thought you were doing, Emma. None of it worked.”

“You want me to tell you that you should have died? I’m not going to. I won’t. If that makes me selfish then fine, that’s what I am.”

“You’ll get no argument from me. It shouldn’t have surprised me, not really. You were always so desperate for it.”  
  
“This isn’t you.”  
  
“That’s wrong again, princess, this is exactly who I am now. Because I had to be. And this is exactly who you’ve always been. That not-witch, she said so. She said you were waiting for it, to be loved. It’s what you’ve always wanted, someone who would do anything for you. I fit that bill perfectly didn’t I?”  
  
“Stop it,” Emma warns, but Killian shakes his head deftly and she can barely see any color in his gaze anymore. The air around her stings her nose. 

“You want to be loved, Emma, but you can’t understand it. So you hoard it and then you push it away with both hands. You try and save everyone on your own. Rash decisions and needy gains and it all ends with exactly what you’ve always been.”

“Which is?”  
  
He leans forward, close enough that his forehead nearly brushes over hers and they still haven’t talked about true love’s kiss. There’s probably not a point anymore. “An orphan,” Killian mutters, and the fact that neither one of Emma’s knees buckle is some kind of twisted, horrible victory. “All alone, Emma. Just like you started.”

Her heart just doesn’t fall back into her stomach. It falls out of her, lands at her feet and then is promptly crushed under the weight of her own foot stomp. Emma doesn’t actually stomp her foot. She considers that a victory too. 

“It was a trap, Killian. The whole goddamn thing. He knew…what the sword would do and we walked into it with wide eyes.”  
  
“That’s an excuse.”

“No, it’s not,” Emma objects. “It’s a reason. The Dark One--”  
  
“--That’s me now.”  
  
She grits her teeth and, really, stomping her foot is juvenile and pointless, but Emma can’t figure out what to do with all the residual energy in every one of her muscles and her leg moves of its own volition. Killian’s eyebrows twist again. “Thank you,” Emma spits. “For pointing out a fact I obviously wasn’t aware of. So, menacing Dark One, tell me something. Why are you here then?”

He blinks. 

Once. Twice. Again. Over and over. 

“I wouldn’t have left,” Emma murmurs. “Never. Not to you. Not on purpose.”  
  
“Aye, but you didn’t really try and stop it, did you?”  
  
One side of Emma’s mouth tugs up, not quite a smile because nothing about this situation warrants a smile, but she can’t control any of her muscles anymore and he sounds so resigned to it all. “The truth, Killian,” she says, back in his space with both her palms resting on his chest. His heartbeat isn’t that strong, a soft thud against her touch. Emma counts it. Like she’s hoarding every single bit of rhythm. 

Gods, she really is as selfish as advertised. 

“How?”  
  
He stares at her for a moment – all appraising and Emma does her best not to wilt under it. She tilts her head up again, keeping her expression as neutral as she can, but that seems kind of pointless when she knows Killian can feel the hitch in her magic. 

It’s trying to protect her. 

Again. 

From him. 

And the shadows that lap at the edge of his eyes. 

“The curse was quick,” he starts, “efficient, even. And I was...darkness can’t just appear in you, Emma. It has to settle. It has to shift into every inch of you, claw its way into your brain and take up residence in the very center of everything. It quells any hint of light, any bit of goodness, rips it out and replaces it with something entirely different. Something entirely empty.”

She’s still not holding her breath. She’s breathing almost too loudly, honestly, pants and groans and Emma’s mind jumps back to a bar she never realized was there, words that, at the time, hadn’t made much sense, but now--

_Although, well...when one loses someone like that, I suppose it makes them desperate._

“I didn’t want that.”  
  
“Aye, I’m sure you didn’t, love.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“Always a but isn’t there?” Killian asks with a slight shrug. His lips quirk again, half flirting and half absolutely not, that little bit of magic that hangs on every single word and makes the light lingering between Emma’s fingers flare. He sighs. “I was...I was inevitable, Emma. It was too easy for the darkness to latch onto me, exactly what it wanted. And you were gone. Liam was gone. Anything that had ever been good and--”

He takes another shuddering breath, and Emma knows he wants to run his fingers through his hair. She wants to run her fingers through his hair. It’s a fine line to walk. 

“Mary Margaret used to say we were the worst kept secret in the kingdom,” Emma whispers, almost normal until she notices how thin Killian’s lips have gone again and maybe lingering on could-have-beens isn’t entirely appropriate. 

“Using her goddamn birds probably didn’t help.”  
  
Her laugh shakes out of her, wobbly and watery and she really thought she had stopped crying before. Huh. “Yeah, that’s probably true. And you’re still deflecting.”

“Rumplestiltskin.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Rumplestiltskin,” Killian repeats. “He was still there. The curse didn’t take him and I--well, for whatever it might be worth, I did try and fight the darkness. For a little while, at least.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“There it is again.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But,” he says, finally pulling the sword off his shoulder so he can rest the point of it in the dirt at his feet. The déjà vu very likely leaves several bruises on Emma’s skin. “Then Rumplestiltskin started claiming he still had magic. He started rallying the troops, so to speak.”  
  
It can’t possibly be healthy for Emma to be this confused. She really wants to sit down. 

“I’m going to assume by the look on your face you don’t understand,” Killian mutters, and he twists his left wrist as soon as Emma’s fingers shift. “No, no, darling, you caught me off guard once before and that was very impressive, but the magic’s not going to work again. Not on me.”

“Because you’re the one with magic now, right? Not Rumplestiltskin?”  
  
He doesn’t beam. Beam is a word for good and right and Emma knows Killian’s not either one of those things anymore, but that’s her fault and part of her still hopes. Because part of her believes he came back for her. 

_Every single time._

“You catch on quick, Savior.”  
  
“It’s not an answer.”  
  
Killian hums, every one of his teeth on display when he grins. “You realize I have done you a bit of a disservice here. I’m accusing you of being selfish when I, myself, have done the same thing. Although--” He clicks his tongue, squeezing one eye shut in mock concentration. “I simply wanted what is rightfully mine.”  
  
“Power?”  
  
“Respect.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“Don’t do that, Emma,” he warns, but she laughs in response and her mind flits back to the dancing metaphor. “Rumplestiltskin was still lauding himself as the Dark One. Claiming power and control and, well...without George’s magical children to lead us, it was all too easy for him to establish himself.”  
  
“He didn’t have magic, though.”  
  
“Aye, aye, you’re right. It didn’t matter, though.”

She’s honestly annoyed it takes her that long to figure it out. Emma’s jaw drops and her laugh turns incredulous, Killian’s jaw tensing because her magic races and whatever light flashes at the end of her hair is nothing short of triumphant. “You didn’t do it, did you?” she asks, fully expecting the silence she gets. “Rumplestiltskin could bring people to his side because they knew he’d been the Dark One. But they didn’t know about you. No one else did. I didn’t--I never left that field, I never told Mary Margaret and I certainly never told Regina, that’s...if I had do you think she could have changed the curse?”

Killian doesn’t respond. 

Emma expected that too. It doesn’t make it any better. 

And she’s not entirely sure of the answer. 

“Alright,” she presses, trying to sort through theories and even more questions, “so...Rumplestiltskin doesn’t have magic anymore, but you’re not exactly broadcasting your status. Even if--oh, Killian.”

Emma pushes up on her toes, ignoring the sword and the warning ringing in her ears, palm flat against the stubble that graces Killian’s chin. He’s still frozen. She’s not even sure he’s breathing, and for a second she worries about how much _this_ will fuck up everything else, but it all seems to be going to complete shit anyway and--

He turns his head, lips brushing over the inside of her wrist with another quivering exhale, the feel of it as soft as butterfly wings and that’s sentimental and absurd, but Emma closes her eyes with the force of her answering magic. 

She knows the shadows retreat. 

If even for a moment. 

“How long?”  
  
“I don’t understand the question.”  
  
“How long?” Emma repeats. “You said the darkness had to settle in you. How long did it take? How long did you--” Gods, she’s crying again. Still. Indefinitely. And Killian’s expression looks almost agonizing, as if he’s fighting all over again. Emma lets her forehead rest against his, the hilt of the sword digging into her back as soon as his arm wraps around her. 

“Not as long as I probably should have,” he whispers, mostly into her hair when he shifts again. “And even less so after Rumplestiltskin started recruiting. He was...he kept claiming the magic as his and it wasn’t...the voices--”  
  
“--Wait, wait, voices?”  
  
Killian nods. Emma assumes, at least. His cheek is pressed to the side of her head. “It’s um...I think it’s all of darkness. All the past Dark Ones and what they want and how they…”

He trails off again, Emma’s hair twisting under his cheek and she crashes back to her heels with a soft thump. More whiplash. It’s exhausting. 

And magical. 

“Hey,” she mumbles, dragging her nails across Killian’s chest when his gaze turns distant. “At me. Look at me.”  
  
Nothing. 

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t shift his gaze or let go of the tension she can practically feel radiating between his shoulder blades. He stares ahead and his tongue flickers between his lips and whatever sound the sword is making gets louder, shaking the walls of the station until bits of rock and rubble land on the ground as well. 

They’re louder than Emma’s feet. 

“Killian,” Emma continues, sharper that time. “Babe. You’ve got to look at me. Right now. Ignore the--shit, saying voices out loud is so goddamn weird.”

And, really, she should not be frustrated that _that_ is what wakes him up, but that’s the kind of life they’re living, apparently and whatever sound he makes is partially surprised and a little dubious and maybe even a little charmed. 

There’s only one shadow hanging on to the curve of his right ear. 

“Aye, it is,” he agrees softly. “I have to say I’m really very partial to the _babe_ thing.”

“Still with me?”  
  
“As much as I can be, at least.”  
  
“Rumplestiltskin. Recruiting other magic beings that weren’t picked up by the curse. You fighting the darkness.”  
  
“Emma--”  
  
“No, no,” she cuts in, an absurd objection that is even more desperation to stay on this conversational path without insults and only slightly convoluted explanations. “How did you get here? Why did you--”  
  
“Oh, Emma, you’ve got to know that too, love.”  
  
Her tongue is a biological marvel. And that’s a disgusting thought. But it must be setting some kind of swelling record and Emma shakes her head, the ends of her hair flickering and fluttering in a sudden gust of wind that’s probably a little magical too.

It smells horrible. 

“None of it ever made sense,” Killian explains. “The voices and the want and I couldn’t---I kept trying to fit it all together. It was...chaotic. Exhausting, but, well, did you know Dark Ones don’t actually have to sleep?”  
  
“I didn’t.”  
  
“They don’t, which left me plenty of time to consider several thousand things. Usually all at once and. I--” He almost smiles. Almost. Which seems like another less-than-ideal theme and Emma still can’t figure out where all the stuff in this track came from. “The Darkness wanted to destroy Rumplestiltskin. Ursula mentioned it. She thought he was coming after me and to some extent that was true. He wanted his magic back, still does I’d wager, but I was...I wanted to rip him limb from limb. For what he’d done to me. For what he’d done to you. For...for all of it.”  
  
“But you didn’t?”  
  
Killian makes a noise in the back of his throat. “That’s the rub, isn’t it? He was touting himself as the most powerful being in the entire kingdom and there I was, furious at it. But I didn’t want to use the magic. I didn’t want to give in. And, the whole time, the voice in the back of my brain kept whispering. That you’d left. That it had all been a lie. That none of it was--”  
  
“--That’s not true,” Emma interrupts, ready for the exasperated expression. She doesn't care. She needs him to understand. She needs the goddamn whiplash to stop. “Never. It was always you, Killian. Always.”

He spends, exactly, sixteen seconds and two excruciatingly slow deep breaths staring at her. As if he’s waiting for the lie or looking for the joke and the color in his eyes is _nearly_ right when he blinks. That doesn’t last long, though. 

He shakes his head, gritting his teeth and still fighting it all and Emma can’t move her hands fast enough, brushing over skin and stubble and the absolutely absurd curve of both of his cheekbones. Killian rocks forward, labored breathing and quick hisses of pain and the walls around them are still shaking. 

Emma assumes that’s not great for the foundations. 

Or whatever. 

“And it was always you, Emma,” he breathes. “As soon as I walked onto the dock.”

She lets out a breath her lungs probably could have used, well aware that consistent oxygen is key to maintaining consciousness, but her body continues to be kind of an overemotional, decidedly magical jerk and Emma’s almost positive she can feel the brush of lips over the top of her head as soon as it crashes into Killian’s chest. 

They’re a mess of limbs for a moment, both of them using the other to remain upright, and it’s a miracle he hasn’t dropped the sword yet. 

Emma knows it’s not a miracle. 

“How did you get here?”  
  
“You’re really very interested in that, aren’t you?”  
  
“Magic?”  
  
Killian makes another noise, not quite an agreement, but not the disagreement she might have been hoping for. “Rumplestiltskin recognized the curse. How could he not? It was his.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Did you not think that?”  
  
“Ok, you do not get to lord that over me,” Emma grumbles. 

“I suppose that’s true, but, yes, to answer your rather loud question. That’s where Regina learned it, of course. At the knee of Rumplestiltskin. He never used it because he realized that magic wouldn’t be able to survive here. This realm, it’s not...built for it.”  
  
“That’s what the seeress said.”  
  
“Aye, sometimes even she has to get things right, I suppose.” Emma rolls her eyes, one side of Killian’s mouth twisted up and it’s more almost flirting. The _almost_ is the worst. “It was years, Emma. You were gone for years and the darkness kept creeping in, getting stronger and more determined and I--it was getting harder and harder to fight it. But I knew Rumplestiltskin was making his move. He wanted his magic back.”  
  
“I get that. So, he was building an army that he thought would be able to--what? Defeat you? That’s a little George-esque, don’t you think?”

“No, that’s not what it was at all.”  
  
“What? God, make your point--”  
  
“--He wanted you, love,” Killian says, as if it’s obvious and Emma supposes it almost is. Damn. “Because he knew nothing he did to me would be able to accomplish much. He’s tasted this, Emma, knows exactly how the darkness feels and how it operates and he knew what George didn’t. There’s no fighting it. Not unless you’re leading the charge.”

Emma has no idea what noise she makes. She’s barely even aware of her eyes falling closed, far too focused on the shift of her shirt when Killian’s prosthetic brushes against the side. And the world feels like it changes a little bit, another challenge and more guilt, the weight of it yanking on her and tugging on each one of her muscles until she’s a little stunned to find that she hasn’t, simply, unspooled into a mess of skin and tissue at the Dark One’s feet. 

No, that’s wrong. 

Again. 

Killian. It’s Killian. She has to keep thinking that. 

“He wanted you, Emma,” Killian continues, tracing a pattern across her back she assumes he hopes is comforting, “from the very beginning. He knew I’m not--I won’t give it back. The magic. It’s not his anymore. Not now. Not after everything.”  
  
She jerks her head up, eyes widening and tongue possibly landing in the back of her throat. And Killian’s gaze has shifted again, more darkness and shadows that move with an almost alarming amount of speed across his face. 

His hand falls back to his side. 

The change isn’t sudden – she watches it happen for God’s sake, but it’s still fairly terrifying and that’s not a word Emma’s really ever thought of in relation to Killian. At least not a version of Killian that is hers. 

This isn’t.

The understanding slinks down her spine, cold, like a piece of ice and the scent of disappointment and disdain and _years_ of fighting what she’d turned him into. He backs up, slow and measured, far too calculating to be natural because maybe this was a trick too and Emma doesn’t know which way is up. 

It does, however, help when _up_ starts to rattle again. 

The ceiling above them hasn’t ever looked particularly safe, but it’s even less so when parts of it start to fall down around them again, dust in Emma’s eyes and a rather large piece of drywall landing far too close to her foot for comfort. 

She jumps, twisting her wrist and there’s a sphere of light sitting in her palm. Killian shoots her another look, not entirely impressed, but maybe a little bit like a teacher that appreciates when a kid makes, at least, an effort in class. 

“Oh, don’t do that,” Emma hisses, working another laugh out of him that’s only a little absurd when he’s brandishing a sword at the ceiling. 

And she doesn’t hear it at first. 

It’s soft, which is strange considering the state of track 61 and Emma’s only a little worried about what’s going to happen to all the other shit that’s hidden there, but then the noise gets louder and it’s not so much a noise as it is _beating_ because it’s--

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Emma shouts, waving her hand because the ceiling is crashing around them now and the walls are shaking and the beating is the steady rhythm of wings. Dragon wings. 

It’s a goddamn dragon. 

On track 61 underneath Grand Central Station.

“Huh,” Killian muses. He twists the sword in his hand, head tilted to the side with his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. “I’ll be honest, I wasn’t expecting that at all.”

“What the fuck do we do with that?”  
  
“Swearing at it is not going to help, love.”  
  
“And you being far too confident isn’t doing much for my sense of confidence either.”

He flashes her a grin – wholly unconvincing and entirely empty, particularly when the color in his eyes shifts again, a flash that makes Emma recoil just a bit because the flash is magic and the magic smells awful and she has to wave her hand to throw up a barrier when the dragon starts actually breathing fire at them. 

“I’ve never actually seen a dragon in real life,” Killian reasons, stepping in front of her when the dragon lunges which is not something Emma was entirely prepared for. “Bloody hell, it’s incredibly agile, isn’t it?”  
  
“Should we be calling the dragon an it?”  
  
“You were just cursing it! Now you want to get particular about insults?”

Emma growls, another push of magic that she swears comes from the middle of her chest. That’s new. And stronger. It smacks the dragon in its hind leg, just under a folded wing that looks very heavy and very capable of snapping her in half it was so inclined. 

“Oh, that was a good shot,” Killian mutters. “Your aim isn’t bad. Better than it was when we were kids, at least.”  
  
The casual reminder of the past probably isn’t supposed to be an insult either, but Emma isn’t really sure of anything and she might be the one wobbling now. So she doesn’t answer, just tugs her lips back behind her mouth and thrusts her hand forward again. 

The magic hits its mark for the second straight time, forcing a noise out of the dragon that doesn’t sound particularly like a sound a dragon would make. It’s far too--

“Well, that doesn’t sound like a magical beast now, does it?” Killian asks, the words turning genuinely curious. That's worse than the insult, honestly, because that’s more _normal_ than the insult and Emma hadn’t given it much thought, but the librarian thing makes a ton of sense. 

He’d always been that – curious and apt to searching, looking for things that could help and help her and whatever minimal amount of air she’s been able to keep in her lungs feels like it’s turned to lead and cement and it’s a strange mix of past and present and cursed and not and she almost doesn’t notice the stupid dragon. 

The heat of the flames that fly her direction sear the ends of her hair, making Emma gag when it threatens to moves towards her skin and it only takes a moment for the first flutter of magic to replace it. 

It’s not her magic. 

Killian turns towards her, back facing a dragon and that’s not all that out of the ordinary either, but this day has been a disaster and Emma can’t believe there’s a dragon involved now. He waves his hand, fingers ghosting under the hem of her shirt and dragging across skin, holding her gaze even as the dragon behind him struggles to move. 

“You didn’t actually say any spells out loud,” Emma mumbles, Killian laughing before she’s even finished talking. 

“Aye, well, you never did either.”

“Right, right.”

“Try not to get in the way of the fire again, huh?”  
  
“I’ll see what I can do.”

Killian nods, tongue darting between his lips again and the rest of the words are left unsaid, which, really, is probably for the best because Emma isn’t sure she can actually cope with anymore back and forth, or anything except the absolute and complete truth. But he never did explain why he came after her or how he came after her and what he had to do to get to New York to find a sword he’d once demanded stuck in a stone. 

Like Camelot. 

“Oh shit, the round table,” Emma mutters, and Killian makes a noise that might be confusion. That probably shouldn’t be satisfying. 

“You’ve got to at least try and make some sense, Emma.”  
  
“Why are you here?”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
“No, no, I need--” She scowls, well aware of how _that_ sounds after _everything_ and the dragon has started fighting against her magic. Emma groans, throwing her head back and her hands up and it’s not easy to keep her balance when the magic rocks through her. The arm that curls around her middle helps though, and she can only imagine how they look. 

Killian’s still got his back to the dragon, Emma flush against his chest while she waves her right arm and twists her left wrist and Killian’s mumbling under his breath. It sends more rubble crashing onto the track, destroying the archway a train, in theory, would move down and leaves them just one exit back into Grand Central, but Emma’s not sure there’s really an exit here and the dragon makes that noise again. 

“Bloody hell,” Killian mutters, digging his chin into Emma’s shoulder. “Love, if you’re going to actually do something, you’ve got to do it now.”

“And what are you doing, exactly?”  
  
“I’m trying to get that last retaining wall to fall on the mythical beast trying to destroy us.”  
  
Emma clicks her tongue in reproach. “That’s pedestrian.”  
  
“Ah, so I see the insults have fallen to me now, huh?”  
  
“How do you even know what a retaining wall is?”  
  
“That is basic knowledge, princess. And I did spend some time going over those blueprints earlier. Looked at them longer than you did at least. You were far too busy scheming in the kitchen weren’t you?”  
  
“Ok, that is not--” Emma cuts herself off because the idea had been there, half formed and half baked and her laugh is absurd. She flexes her hand. And the hilt of the sword is cold in her grip. “You’ve got to pay better attention,” she mutters, and she’s not sure if it’s more misplaced flirting or just generic insults or her own pitiful attempts at coping with _any of this_ , but Killian’s shoulders fall and his jaw drops and Emma throws the sword.

As hard as she can. 

She doesn’t say a spell. She isn’t sure if there is a spell, really. She just stares ahead and hopes. That’s probably the key. 

Mary Margaret would tell her that, at least. 

And the sword pierces exactly where she wants to, a squelch that sounds like more déjà vu and the burst of magic around them is so sudden and so bright Emma briefly wonders if she’ll ever see anything except the light. 

Until it disappears – as quickly as it arrived, a fuming Dark One glaring at her with enough weight that Emma has to try not to cower under the force of it, his magic swirling at his feet and billowing in the air around them and Killian flicks his head to the side. The sword appears in his hand again. Immediately. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers, a warning and a promise all rolled into one. 

Emma lifts her eyebrows. “Every single time.”

It’s not a response. It doesn’t even make sense in the context of the conversation, but the shadows flicker and Killian’s eyes fall to his shoes for a moment, darting back up to Emma with something that’s almost imploring and absolutely _hers_ and none of it makes sense. 

Lancelot killed a dragon. 

Depending on which story you read. 

“Ah, that is unfortunate,” a brand-new voice says, and Emma nearly bites her tongue in half. Presumably because it’s swelling again. In fear, or something. 

Killian shifts, half a step in front of Emma. She doesn’t think he realizes he does it, brandishing the sword in front of him and they’re both practically pulsing with magic. 

Rumplestiltskin laughs. 

He’s still holding that cane, standing in the archway Emma and Killian had walked through what feels like several lifetimes ago, with a smile on his face and not a single speck of dust on his suit jacket. His shoes look freshly polished. 

“You didn’t have to kill her,” he continues, taking a step forward. “That was entirely unnecessary.”

Emma’s eyes are going to fall out of her head.  
  
Rumplestiltskin stops a few feet short of them, a quick shrug and lingering glance at the hand reaching back towards Emma. The prosthetic hand. “Well, Captain, Savior, here we are again. It’s nice to see you, both. Give me magic back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's incredibly nice that you guys keep clicking and reading these words. So, thanks for doing that. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	13. Chapter 13

“This may be a good time to come up with a few more new and creative curses, darling.”

Emma kicks him, the toe of her shoe colliding with Killian’s ankle and she fully expects whatever he does with his eyebrows. And his mouth. She’s admittedly a little more preoccupied with the mouth thing, a quick quirk of lips and his tongue clearly swiping across his teeth and Rumplestiltskin is still smiling at them. 

There’s a dead dragon a few feet away. 

The whiplash of it all continues to be absurd. 

“How are you here?” Emma asks, not sure who she’s directing the question to anymore. It seems to be the only question she’s capable of asking. 

She briefly wonders if it’s possible that Rumplestiltskin actually has more teeth in his mouth than the average human being. 

It certainly looks that way. 

There’s not much light on the track, mostly because they’re underground and several other factors Emma isn’t willing to consider when Killian’s arm tightens slightly around her waist and there’s a _dead dragon a few feet away_ , but she’s certain any hint of brightness reflects off Rumplestiltskin’s copious amount of teeth and the result leaves goosebumps on her arms and magic fluttering in her veins and she’s having a difficult time breathing consistently. 

That’s probably because of the arm around her. 

“Stop that,” Killian mumbles, not quite a command. It’s more like a plea. And not at all what Emma expects. 

Figures. 

She snaps her head up, eyes going narrow. “Wait, what?”  
  
“Your magic. Stop it.”   
  
“I’m not--”   
  
Killian shakes his head deftly, a sharp, jerky movement that makes Emma nearly swallow her tongue She really needs to stop thinking so much about her tongue. “No, no, it’s--” Killian argues, hissing in a breath and obviously ignoring whatever sound Rumplestiltskin makes. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s a little familiar and just as disconcerting as it was years ago. 

Gods, it’s been years. 

“I can feel it,” Killian continues, voice strained. “What it’s trying to do. I’m not--stop it, Emma.”  
  
It’s getting more and more frustrating to be as confused as she is. 

Rumplestiltskin makes that noise again. 

“If I could interject,” he says lightly, and Emma’s _whole body_ reacts to that, a burst of power and energy that’s like several thousand light bulbs flipping on at once. Killian groans. “Oh,” Rumplestiltskin laughs, finally moving his hands away from his cane to flutter his fingers in the air. “Well, that was certainly unexpected, wasn’t it?”   
  
“Shut up, crocodile,” Killian sneers, and Emma has no idea where to look. 

Her hair is still glowing. 

She’d very much like to punch Rumplestiltskin in the face. Or kick him as well. She’s not going to be particular about it. 

“That delightful insult doesn’t quite make sense anymore,” Rumplestiltskin says, as if that should be enough to change the direction of this wholly ridiculous conversation. Emma almost feels like she’s spinning. “You’ve made sure of that.”

“It’s not yours. Not anymore.”  
  
“Ah, well, that’s a matter of debate isn’t it? And I’ve come all this way. You’ve made it so easy for me, after all. Walked right into it. Again.”

“Shut up!”  
  
“And who are you talking to, exactly?”   
  
Emma’s eyes bug, realization reaching out and slapping her. Metaphorically. It hurts anyway. She wants to kick...everything. And it’s petty and unnatural and not at all helpful in the moment, but she _knows_ and Killian’s skin is clammy as soon as she twists, a hand on his cheek and his chest heaving against her side. 

“Me, you’ve got to look at me,” Emma says, not sure if it’s working or right, but the words fly out of her without much thought to this overall success rate. “Please.”

Killian squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing in something dangerously close to agony and every single one of the veins in his neck are obvious. 

Emma resists the urge to gag at the scent of magic around her. 

_Fighting back._

Fighting her. 

“Oh, Captain, Captain, Captain, it’s not going to be that easy,” Rumplestiltskin says, the look on his face turning almost triumphant and they haven’t really done anything yet. “It’s more difficult now isn’t it? To stay on this course. With her here. Makes you wonder all sorts of things, reconsider all those things you can’t change.”  
  
Killian doesn’t answer, but Emma’s magic is still roaring, enough that her knees wobble and the few pieces of wall that are still, miraculously, standing shake as well. That seems like a fairly shitty miracle, all things considered. 

Rumplestiltskin takes a step forward, rubble crunching under the toe of his undoubtedly expensive shoes and Emma doesn’t think. As per usual. She waves her hand and tilts her head, a flash of light that may still be coming from her hair or just from, like, her soul at this point, and Rumplestiltskin jerks to a stop almost immediately. 

His lips part slightly. 

“Impressive magic,” he muses. “But that’s always been the case, hasn’t it? That’s why I’m so sure this is going to work.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes. “Whatever you’re thinking, I’m not interested, I’m--”   
  
“--already trying to save him. Again. Always, isn’t it?”   
  
Her teeth ache. Probably because she’s clenching her jaw so hard, something actually popping and that can’t possibly be healthy, but Emma’s mind is still bouncing and jumping, trying to latch onto something that’s _right_ and normal and neither one of those words have much meaning anymore. 

Rumplestiltskin laughs. “It’s only a guess,” he continues, eyes shifting quicker and maybe he’s just not human. That doesn’t bode well for the plans Emma’s mind is half forming already. They’re admittedly not good plans. “But from the look on our dear Captain’s face, I’d imagine your magic is doing a fairly good job of trying to fight his.”  
  
“Try and make some sense.”   
  
“I am, Savior, are you not listening? He’s spent years trying to find you. All that True Love and its ability to conquer all.” Rumplestiltskin scoffs. Emma isn’t sure Killian’s breathing. “It’s fairly simple if you think about it. He loved you. You loved him. You--well, you mucked it all up quite a bit, didn’t you, dearie?”   
  
“If you’re looking to point out all my magical failings, you’ll have to get in line,” Emma mutters, working another laugh out of Rumplestiltskin and she’s probably just going to have goosebumps on her arm for the rest of her life. “Get to your goddamn point. What do you want?”   
  
“That’s obvious.”   
  
“So say it out loud.”   
  
“I want magic, my magic. I was merely content to find you, Savior. This all could have been avoided, you know. But--” he clicks his tongue, a quick shrug that doesn’t match up with the three-piece suit he apparently lives in, “--Well, as I say, you’ve managed to muck it all up rather magnificently. I’m sure it’s a record of some sort.”

“Where the hell did you get a dragon?”  
  
“You really did not have to kill her, you know. That’s...it’s rude, honestly.”   
  
“Is it a prerequisite of being a complete dick that you can’t answer questions?”

“I think you just called your boyfriend a dick, Savior. Rude. Again.”  
  
Emma makes a wholly disgusting noise in the back of her throat, certain it does damage to the muscles there. And she’s not entirely prepared for the weight of the prosthetic that, finally, lands back on her skin, drifting towards the small of her back like he’s trying to ground himself or make sure she’s still there and she’s got so many questions she is going to burst with them. 

That will undoubtedly be very gross. 

“She was one of yours wasn’t she?” Killian asks, and he already knows the answer. Rumplestiltskin’s lips twitch. “She wasn’t...I’ve never seen a dragon like that. That wasn’t like the books at all.”  
  
“Have you read a lot of books about dragons, Captain?”

“Gods, she’s right, you’re an ass.”  
  
Rumplestiltskin shrugs again, more teeth and maybe crocodile was right. Still. Even without the magical skin thing. “You do bring up an interesting point though. I suppose that means all your research was almost worth your time, pouring over books, trying to find something, anything that would lead you back--”   
  
“--Answer the question,” Killian roars, and Emma doesn’t mean to gasp. She doesn’t. She hates that she does. She can’t help it. 

Because the walls rattle and her heart sputters against her ribcage, a burst of darkness that’s unlike anything she’s ever experienced before. It’s more than that. It’s fury and disappointment and every absolutely awful, terrible emotion one human being could feel in a single moment. 

Killian pulls her back against his chest when another piece of ceiling drops. 

His chest heaves against her, haggard breaths and air that shouldn’t be nearly that cold brushing against the side of Emma’s neck. She ignores the stab of pain when his chin digs into her shoulder, fingers tugging at the bottom of her shirt and Emma bites her tongue so she doesn’t say anything. 

She says something. 

Figures. Again. 

“It’s ok,” she whispers. “It’s ok. You’re ok. Just keep breathing. In and out. Count them.”  
  
“Gods, you know that doesn’t work,” Killian mumbles. 

“Three in and four out. Breathe out slower.”  
  
“Emma.”   
  
She shakes her head, sure she’s getting hair in his face. He doesn’t argue. “No, c’mon. Let me--please, Killian.”

It takes a moment, blood pooling under Emma’s impossibly large tongue, but she can feel Killian’s inhale and she mumbles numbers under her breath, a quiet metronome she only hopes will work. 

The rest of the ceiling stays in tact.   
  
“That’s pathetic,” Rumplestiltskin snickers, leaning his weight on the cane with his head tilted appraisingly. “Honestly. Just...worthless.”   
  
Killian exhales, Emma still flush against his chest. “Your dragon, wasn’t just a dragon, was she?”

“At least you’re almost smart.”  
  
“A woman?”   
  
“Dragon first. Woman when it was convenient. I believe she was friends with your Ursula, actually. You know you’ve really written your own demise here, Captain. It’s unfortunate, the great tale of Captain Hook and the magic he tried to keep at bay. All in the name of love. It’s not going to work. None of it. You’ve walked yourself into another trap because you were so incredibly short-sighted.”

“Captain Hook?” Emma balks, rolling her eyes when Rumplestiltskin starts to laugh again. She’s going to punch him unconscious solely so she can count his teeth. 

“Ah, yes, I’d imagine you didn’t have much time to discuss all of that after breaking Regina’s little curse, did you? He was already a pirate, your highness, for _you_ , lest we forget all what your dear Dark One did for you.”   
  
“You don’t have magic. There’s nothing holding me back from cursing you.”   
  
“You won’t.”   
  
“And you know this…”   
  
“Because you’re curious,” Rumplestiltskin answers simply. “And your pirate is far too ashamed to tell you the truth. I’m sure Ursula mentioned it when she saw you. She, admittedly, was a little confused since she didn’t realize the worthless sot was fighting his brand-new desires, but--well, even without the darkness coursing through him, he wasn’t all that good anymore. The magic helped amplify what was already there.”

“Why did you need a fucking dragon?” Emma demands, and whatever noise Killian makes at that isn’t quite a laugh, but it does manage to do something very particular to several different parts of her and she’s, at least, seventy-six percent certain he kisses where his lips land. 

Whiplash. 

It’s exhausting. 

“I just told you, Savior, Gods, but you are dense.”  
  
“The sword,” Killian mutters, surprise coloring every single letter. “Oh, bloody fuc--”   
  
Rumplestiltskin grins. More triumph. More whiplash. Emma isn’t sure how much longer her legs can hold up. “That was an interesting move on your part, I’ll give you that.”   
  
“Generous.”   
  
“What the hell are you talking about?” Emma shouts, the light at the end of her fingers flaring. Killian groans. “If you were looking for the sword, why would you need a dragon?”

She get slapped again. Metaphorically. Again. 

Her magic is making it difficult for her to remain upright. And it can’t possibly be good for Killian to be groaning that much. 

Rumplestiltskin looks overjoyed. He doesn’t quite jump, does something more resembling some kind of twisted jig and it’s more déjà vu and memory and Emma has to take a deep breath to stop herself from glowing even more. 

“Thank you,” Killian whispers, and she’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. 

Emma hums, chewing on the side of her tongue. “A dragon,” she starts, “can find--”  
  
“Is drawn to treasure,” Rumplestiltskin corrects. “Innately. It’s part of their very soul, the one thing they’ll look for more than anything else. And what greater treasure is there than a sword that can destroy and control?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Why do you think he wanted it, Savior?”   
  
“I don’t---”   
  
“The sword, Emma,” Killian mutters. “It’s...whatever we did, it’s even more than that woman knew, I think. It’s…”   
  
“A talisman,” Rumplestiltskin finishes. “Able to control the darkness and the one who wields it. Being in possession of that sword is a very powerful thing. Which is why I was so stunned to find that he didn’t have it on him during our little escapade in the bar.”   
  
“You weren’t there,” Emma argues, not sure what she’ll do if Rumplestiltskin shrugs one more goddamn time. Something drastic, she’s sure. 

“I’m very good at pulling strings, my dear.”  
  
“Manipulating them, you mean.”   
  
“A little of column A, a little of column B. I was very intrigued that you didn’t remember who you were though. Must have been a rather shoddy casting of the curse.”   
  
“Maybe it was just a shitty curse.”   
  
Killian laughs. It’s ridiculous, but then so is whatever emotion explodes in the very center of Emma because, that time, she’s absolutely positive he kisses the curve of her neck. 

“I wasn’t sure where you’d gone,” Rumplestiltskin continues, seemingly unperturbed by their banter or back and forth or public displays of affection. “After you disappeared from Storybrooke. I wasn’t sure where the Captain had gone after he’d disappeared from Misthaven.”

“I’ll be honest, this really makes you sound like you’re garbage at being in control,” Emma reasons. 

Rumplestiltskin ignores her. “But then there was that burst of magic. Oh, any being in a thousand-foot radius would have felt that. The power of True Love.”  
  
“You didn’t though, did you?”   
  
He pales. And Emma’s smile hurts every one of the muscles in her face. 

“Gods, but you’re brilliant,” Killian murmurs, mostly into her skin and Emma’s magic flutters again. He slumps against her back, the force of it making her stumble a bit. “Fucking hell.”  
  
“Eloquent.”   
  
“Emma, I can’t--”   
  
Rumplestiltskin’s eyes go wide, the laugh bubbling out of him. He stands up straighter. “You bring up a very good point, Savior,” he says. “I didn’t feel it. Because you robbed me of what is rightfully mine. So I am here to remedy the situation. At first, I was more than content to simply demand you reignite my magic--”   
  
“--I can’t do that.”   
  
“Please, don’t interrupt, dearie, it’s ruining the flow of this. The prophecy claims you can. A spark? Don’t be obtuse.”   
  
“But?”   
  
“There it is,” Killian grumbles, Emma reaching back to wrap her fingers around the hand hanging at his side. The plastic is cool under her touch. 

“But,” Rumplestiltskin echoes. “The pirate disappeared in Misthaven. He’d been searching and fighting. Picking battles and growing that rather sinister reputation. I’m sure it helped to have a weapon at the end of his hand.” Emma blinks. “Oh yes,” Rumplestiltskin nods, “rather unsubtle all things considered, but he probably just found it on his ship. A hook. Made him feel very menacing, no doubt.”  
  
“You cut off my fucking hand,” Killian yells, Rumplestiltskin making a far-from-repentant noise in the back of my throat.

“And your True Love stole my magic, twisted you into the worst version of yourself and you still followed her around like some puppy dog, desperate to be told how wonderful you were. You walked into this, pirate. You twisted and knotted it all, made it so I had no choice but to follow you because you sent away the one thing a dragon could find. Treasure. Tell me something, how did you get to New York?”  
  
Killian doesn’t quite freeze, which is probably a good thing, but he certainly tenses, a shift and a turn of shadows and Emma’s only going to be able to smell sulfur for the rest of her life. Her stomach has apparently taken up residence in the back of her throat. 

“It was the sword,” Rumplestiltskin says, answering his own question with a knowing smile. “That pull. The draw to be in control of yourself, even when you weren’t sure who that self was anymore. You tried to find her, I’m sure, but, in the end, the power got the better of you. And here we are. Back at square one. So,” he says, snapping his gaze back towards Emma. Her magic flares. “I have a few demands, Savior.”  
  
“You do not have any magic.”   
  
“That’s my point.”

“Make it clearer, then.”

“Gladly. I want my magic back. I want it gone from him and back where it belongs. With me. I want to get out of this Godforsaken realm and I want this pitiful excuse of a Dark One to stop trying to defend you. It’s not going to work anymore.”

Emma blinks. And licks her lips. And blinks again. She nearly trips over herself when she spins back around, not sure when Killian’s arm fell away from her waist, only sure that her hands reach out on instinct and practice and he doesn’t flinch. 

He doesn’t move. 

“What does that mean?” Emma asks softly. “Killian, what is he talking about?”  
  
There’s the laugh. 

It’s not natural or human or anything except absolutely, God awful, an almost childlike-sound of glee to it that makes the hair on the back of Emma’s neck stand up and her breath catch and her lungs pinch. It’s memories of skin that wasn’t quite normal and dead grass under her feet, of days that lost all their meaning and...mucking it all up quite a bit. 

“Killian,” Emma repeats, tugging lightly on the front of his shirt and the chains there shift slightly. There’s no ring. Liam’s ring. _Her ring_. She doesn’t know where that is. “How did you get here? Why...why are you--”   
  
“--Emma,” he cuts in sharply, but it’s not the hatred it’s been. It’s pleading and disbelieving, bright blue eyes that stare at her like he can’t possibly comprehend why she’d have to ask that question. He shakes his head, hair shifting towards eyebrows that are pulled low in something almost resembling incredulity and, for half a moment, Emma doesn’t think about Rumplestiltskin. She doesn’t think about the dragon or crumbling foundations or what he’d done to the retaining walls. She thinks about better memories and near-perfect moments and the feel of the blankets in the captain’s quarters of the Jolly. 

“Why? And how?”

“You’re the most determined woman in all the realms, you realize that?”  
  
“That’s not an answer.”   
  
“It’s not a good story.”   
  
“He’s not a good person,” Rumplestiltskin calls out, and Emma’s not sure which one of them moves quicker. Her wrist flips again and Killian blinks, dark ropes appearing around Rumplestiltskin almost immediately and it takes a few prolonged seconds of slightly stunned silence for him to topple to his side.   
  
“Shut up,” Killian growls. His eyes don’t drift away from Emma though, bits of blue lingering even in the darkness that clouds his gaze. “He’s not entirely wrong though.”   
  
Emma nods, not sure if she’s agreeing or, simply, accepting, but the hand on Killian’s chest hasn’t ever moved and that’s probably something. “The truth, Lieutenant. Please.”

“Ursula was right.”

She was expecting the answer, so Emma does her best to keep her face schooled, but he’s always been impossibly good at reading her and she tugs her lips behind her teeth before she can even consider all the reasons she shouldn’t. 

Killian chuckles, left hand shifting towards Emma’s side before he seems to think better of it. “She was right,” he says again. “I knew what the cretin was doing. He was trying to get you. He was...he was recruiting magic, trying to find anyone who could get him here and--”  
  
“--How did he know that we were here, though? Like this...specific part of the Land Without Magic. Did you?”

“Not at first.”  
  
“Gods, that’s not an answer!”

He flashes her a smile, not entirely _him_ , but enough that Emma almost starts to breathe normally. “I found out,” Killian replies evasively, thumb brushing over the side of Emma’s jaw when she throws her whole head back to groan. Rumplestiltskin is still struggling against the ropes around him, one of them moving towards his mouth. 

“From?”  
  
“Does it matter?”   
  
Emma sighs, frustration and something else that she can’t quite put a name to mixing together to make the world’s single most depressing sound. She shakes her head. “Ursula was right,” Killian says again, and Emma does her best to temper her impatience. 

It doesn’t work. She knows it doesn’t. 

Whatever Killian’s expression does make it obvious. 

“I was...I told you, love, Rumplestiltskin was coming for you. He thought he could get you to give him back magic or reignite the darkness in him and I wasn’t--” He grits his teeth, leaning his cheek into Emma’s palm when she pulls it up again. “I couldn’t let that happen. No matter what.”

Emma doesn’t answer. She’s not sure what she’d even say, far too overwhelmed and glowing and it’s a mess of feeling and magic and the smell of goddamn sulfur. 

She gags. 

That’s not the best response, really. 

“Do you remember when we were younger,” Killian starts, “there was a story. We heard it...some old captain docked in one of the shadier parts of the town and he claimed there was a beanstalk on the other side of the Enchanted Forest. Where the--”

“--Ogres were,” Emma finishes, Killian humming in agreement. “That was all just hearsay though. The giant and the--oh, fucking hell.” Killian nods, the ends of his mouth tugging up into something that’s almost a smile. “It was real?” Emma whispers. “You found a magic bean?”  
  
“Not on the beanstalk.”   
  
“Then where?” Killian shakes his head, a flash of something that might actually be amusement when Emma’s frustration turns nearly palpable. “Ok, fine, fine, you don’t want to tell me, whatever. But you got a bean?”

“Aye.”  
  
“And?”   
  
“And it was dead.”   
  
Emma tires to make sense of that. And, really, it doesn’t take long for her to understand – she’d argue it only takes as long as it does because she’s exhausted and, admittedly, a little overwhelmed and she keeps trying to count how often she can see the blue return to Killian’s gaze. It’s not as much as she’d like. “So,” Killian continues, “I had to find something to revive it.”   
  
“You couldn’t?”   
  
He shakes his head, regret dripping off the movement. “No. That’s--that’s light magic, love I wouldn’t have been able to do it if I tried. You, on the other hand…”

“Is that why you needed Ursula?”  
  
“Aye, she...well, I was told she’d be able to lead me to Nostos.”   
  
“And she did?”   
  
Killian hums again, fingers tracing patterns on her side. The blue is gone again. “She wanted something in return though. Everyone always did.”

“And you--”  
  
“--Betrayed her,” Rumplestiltskin calls out, somehow twisting away from the ropes and there’s more than one patch of redness on either side of his chin. 

Emma’s eyes flicker up, dropping her hand to grab around Killian’s wrist. He presses his lips together. “What happened?”  
  
“She wanted to leave,” Killian responds simply. “She didn’t realize I had magic, but I--”   
  
“--Dark One tricks, Dark One lies,” Rumplestiltskin yells, voice turning hoarse and screech-like and Emma’s eyes bug again. Killian doesn't respond. “She told you, Savior. She told you what he did, let her take the danger unto herself, steal that squid ink and…”   
  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Emma interrupts. “When we were in the bar, Ursula said that squid ink helped with memories. Did you think that would happen? Losing your memory?”

Killian clicks his tongue. “I was trying to be prepared.”  
  
“Because you had a magic bean that could be revived at Nostos and you...needed Ursula to bring you there?”   
  
“That’s the crux of it, aye.”

“I never understood why you really needed the sea witch,” Rumplestilskin muses. He’s sitting now, only slightly absurd with his legs tugged up to his chest and his chin resting on his knees. “You have magic. More magic than anyone left in that realm.”  
  
“Strangely enough that didn’t make me omniscient,” Killian bites back. “She knew where it was. How it worked. If it _would_ work. And I--”   
  
“--You wanted to protect the Savior. From me.”

“I’m going to kill you. And I’m going to enjoy it.”

Rumplestilskin laughs, a quick wink and sarcastic nod and Emma is certain this is not the first time they’ve had this conversation. “Keep telling yourself that, dearie. I’m sure it will make all those sins feel a little bit better.”

“Is that why you sent the sword away?” Emma asks suddenly, the question all but leaping out of her mouth. That may actually be her magic. 

“Someday I’m sure you’ll stop surprising me, love.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”  
  
He chuckles, part him and part not and it’s the mix of both that makes every one of Emma’s muscles ache. “If I was going to jump into a portal to the Gods knew where, not entirely sure what was going to happen, then I wanted some backup. I’d read about squid ink. It can immobilize those with magic as well and I’d come up with some rather dastardly ways to use that if everything else went to shit.”   
  
“Has it not?”   
  
“No,” he shakes his head. “You found me.”

She does something. She knows she does, if only because the push of her toes makes noise and the flash of pain that settles into the shift of her calves makes her grit her teeth, but Emma isn’t altogether sure what, exactly, she does, just that it happens. 

And for one, nearly blissful moment, it’s fine. Genuinely. And truly. The hand on her back shifts, tugging her closer to him until their knees clack together, lips catching lips in something that isn’t desperate, but might be drifting closer to True Love. 

With capital letters. 

And the power to break any curse. 

Emma slings her arms around Killian’s neck, fingers finding the hair at the base of his head. She scratches her nails against the skin, light touches and her lips part as soon as she feels the first brush of his tongue. He’s smiling. 

She can tell. 

They rock against each other for a moment that feels as if it could last forever and still not be long enough, swaying slightly until it seems as if they’re both determined to occupy the same space and Killian’s laugh when Emma’s foot lands on his is as wonderful as it is surprising. 

She can taste it.   
  
Like joy and _good_ and those capital letters again. 

And, strictly speaking, that should probably be at the top of the list of _most disgusting thoughts_ she’s ever had, but it’s also almost comforting and wonderful and the burst of blue in his eyes makes her think of everything she’d forgotten. 

“I was always trying to get back, love,” Killian whispers, forehead resting against hers and Emma is loathe to close her eyes, but the weight of the words slink into her and she can’t really help it. She wonders if keeping her eyes closed will make the memory last longer. 

“I know.”  
  
Killian makes a noise, almost contentment and nearly happiness, but then Rumplestilskin laughs again and Emma’s magic flares – another burst of near-blinding light that leaves her blood thrumming in her ears and the blue is gone as soon as she looks back up. 

She can barely see Killian’s face, hidden by shadows that wrap around every inch of him. They twist and curl, hanging off the ends of his fingers and the edges of his jacket sleeves. 

Emma gets brighter.

She flashes like she’s a goddamn lighthouse, trying to fight against a variety of hurricanes and several different tropical storms and the explanation almost makes sense because the wave of emotion playing out on the man in front of her makes it feel as if she’s going to need to talk to several different governmental organizations about monetary aid eventually. 

She groans when she loses track of the metaphor. 

And Killian hisses, chin falling to his chest as if the shadows clinging to his back are too heavy. 

“Stop it,” he says, and they’ve circled back to the beginning of the conversation. Emma’s going to set a groaning record. 

The whiplash has got to stop. It’s making her head hurt, as if she herself is being knotted as well and that would probably be more comfortable than whatever Emma is experiencing, her magic shouting at her to _do something_ , but it doesn’t seem to know _what_ and Killian’s eyes aren’t just dark. They’re empty. 

He’s staring above her head. 

“I’m not doing--” Emma starts, but he jerks slightly and she knows that’s as much of a disagreement as she’s going to get. “Ok, ok, it’s my magic, right? It doesn’t...like your magic, because it’s--”  
  
“--Dark,” Killian breathes. That, almost, makes sense. “It’s…” He doesn’t quite scream, but it’s far too close for comfort, and Emma’s almost forgotten about the stupid sword. Killian grabs it, fingers curling around a hilt that’s far too familiar and entirely different than it was before.

He snaps back, Emma’s mind jumping to more memories and sharp folds, the crisp line of a uniform and maybe that was her first mistake. He should have stayed at the docks. He should have--”Oh, fucking hell,” she mutters, understanding rippling through her again. 

Killian points the sword at her. 

Rumplestilskin’s laugh takes a decidedly gloating turn. “Well, this is even better than I could have expected. Savior, you remember my terms?”

“I’m not giving you magic,” Emma mutters. Her fingers flutter at her side, bits of light and warmth bouncing between them. 

It doesn’t get Killian to lower the sword. 

“Stop it, Emma,” he says, each word measured and absolutely, positively _not_ him. She closes her eyes again. 

That might be defeat, though. 

“It’s fighting him, Savior,” Rumplestilskin explains. “It’s interesting, I’ll give you that. How True Love can hold on even when you’re on opposite sides of the spectrum. And, well...as you can see, your--” He chuckles again, the noise turning to a groan when Emma waves her hand and tightens the ropes around his ankles. “Your magic is doing its best to destroy him. That’s why I’m going to win. You have to take it from him. And I want it back, or I'll send an army after you and everyone you care about.”

Emma throws her whole head back, heat racing through her veins and sparking under her skin. She glances down to make sure she hasn’t, actually, burst into flame, only slightly disappointed to find that her skin has remained in tact. 

Killian’s arm must hurt. “You can’t do this, Emma.”  
  
“I’m not doing anything!”   
  
“I’m not giving him our magic, I won’t--”   
  
“--Wait, wait, did you say our?” Emma asks, all but growling when _that_ snaps into place as well. “The voices. The other Dark Ones, that’s what it was wasn’t it...why...” Her eyes flicker towards the tip of the sword pointed at her, dangerously close to the exact location of her heart. “Killian,” she starts, leaning forward against her better judgement, and the pinch between his eyebrows looks permanent, “Babe, listen to me. Not them. Just me. Please.”   
  
“Ah, I wouldn’t do that, Dark One,” Rumplestilskin objects, and Emma is not prepared to fight a battle on so many different and simultaneous fronts. “She wants to destroy darkness. She wants to get rid of your magic. She wants to send you back to what you were. Do you remember?”   
  
Killian shakes his head, as if he’s trying to shake away the memories themselves. Emma watches the muscles in his throat shift, a quick bob and a flash of teeth and she can’t move any closer to him. 

He’s still pointing a sword at her. 

“Magicless,” Rumplestilskin continues, and each letter feels like it cuts through Emma’s entire soul. She’s apparently very melodramatic when everything is going to shit. “Powerless. Nothing more than a charity case for a want-to-be royal.”  
  
“No,” Emma cries. Literally. Metaphorically. It doesn’t matter. It’s difficult to see the sword through the tears stinging her eyes. “That’s not true! It’s not, Killian. Never!”   
  
He shakes his head again, the tip of his tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth, and Emma can see the battle there, a one-man war against an army of magic and darkness and the desperate desire to control everything. 

After years of the opposite. 

She takes a shaky inhale, trying to steady herself and her emotions, but her magic is kind of a dick and it refuses to settle. It spikes, likely reacting to the haphazard rhythm of her pulse. Killian’s eyes dart towards her as soon as he feels it, and she’s never sure how he manages to take a step forward without actually stabbing her, but Emma assumes she should be grateful for the lack of stabbing and--

“It’s never going to end, Savior,” he hisses. “You can’t be here anymore. None of us can.”  
  
“Why not?”   
  
“Regina told us when we were in the castle. This land, this realm, it’s not meant for us. Not for the ones with magic. It’s never going to survive.”   
  
“The only reason it did, your highness, is because of you,” Rumplestilskin says, far too joyful and Emma’s having more and more trouble summoning her magic. It jumps and leaps and does several things an invisible force should never be able to do, but then it disappears as suddenly, leaving an empty void that she isn’t entirely sure how to feel. 

Loneliness. 

That’s what it is. 

All over again. 

“It was dying from the moment you got here, Emma,” Killian continues. “It lasted because you’re...well, powerful. And it sparked when you found me, but now--” He shrugs, a sarcastic tilt of his head that makes the hair falling across his brow shift and Emma’s breathing as heavily as if she’d never interacted with oxygen before. “Now, your magic won’t shut up.”

“Stop listening to them,” Emma says, hating how quickly her voice turns to pleading. _Begging, really_. She’s begging and hoping and it’s not easy to do the second one when she feels as alone as she ever has. “This isn’t--”   
  
“--You’ve got a few choices, Savior,” Rumplestilskin cuts in. He, somehow, works back to his feet, wobbling just a bit, but the look on his face makes it obvious he believes he’s already won. “Again. You let us all stay here, in this realm, to fester without magic because, let’s be honest, dearie, whatever your True Love sparked, it won’t last long now that the pirate remembers. You abandon him, again, leave him to the darkness and find a way back to Storybrooke with--”   
  
“--Your magical author guy?” Emma suggests. 

Rumplestilskin hums. “Clever, isn’t he? Again, I hate to point fingers, but that was mostly your pirate’s fault. He disappeared through that portal, Ursula made sure he wouldn’t remember and then, rather immediately, brought her talents to me. Willingly, I’d add. That’s how I met Cruella who, in turn, introduced me to Isaac.”  
  
“Quite a little network of assholes you’ve got going on.”   
  
“You’re distracting me from your final option.”   
  
“Spit it out then.”   
  
“Take the darkness out of him. Give it back to me. Where it rightfully belongs.”   
  
Emma scoffs, but her mind is already racing and her heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of her chest. Her eyes flash towards Killian. 

Instinct. Or True Love. 

He blinks. 

“You did it once,” Rumplestilskin presses. “So, let’s skip right over the part where you tell me how impossible it is. It’s beneath us, don’t you think?”  
  
Emma shakes her head – from disbelief and...not much more. She can’t believe they’ve come to this. Or that she’s actually considering it. She fists both her hands at her side, trying to contain the magic pulsing out of her and it doesn’t really work. 

Killian’s yelp of pain makes that clear. 

“No,” Emma whispers. “No, I won’t--”  
  
“--He’ll kill you, princess,” Rumplestilskin says, cutting her off and there’s more blood in Emma’s mouth. “He won’t think twice about it. I’ve heard those voices too and they are not all that interested in bartering with you. They don’t like it when you try and destroy them, you see.”

“That’s not Killian.”  
  
Rumplestilskin clicks his tongue in reproach. “It is now. You made sure of that.”

The tears that land on her cheek are hot. Scalding, even. Flush with magic and feeling and it’s all too much and not enough and Emma almost doesn’t hear it at first. 

“Swan.”  
  
She spins on the spot, breath rushing out of her and the lights at the end of her hair as bright as they’ve ever been. Hopeful. Powerful. Chock-full of capital letters. 

“Hi,” Emma breathes, and it is, hands down, the single worst response she could possibly come up with. Killian’s lips quirk up, the arm holding his sword shaking and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but there’s definitely blue in his eyes and Emma steps forward. 

He doesn’t stab her. 

So, points or whatever. 

“Swan, you can’t--” He groans, jaw cracking when it snaps open and--”That’s enough! Enough!”

He’s not talking to her. 

Emma’s eyes widen at the realization, ignoring every inch of her that hurts, far too much magic and movement, pushing up on her toes to rest her palm on his cheek again. She brushes her fingers over his forehead, moving strands of hair away from his eyes. She lets her thumb graze over as much skin as she can reach, like she’s trying to mark him or remind him of something, _anything_ , a single reason to keep fighting and--

“I need your help, love.”

It takes her, exactly, three seconds, one genuinely disgusting sniffle and a far-too-dramatic gasp to understand what he means. 

Rumplestilskin howls. 

And the rest seems to happen in a blur, voices coming from the tunnel at the end of the track and Emma hears her own name screeched through the air. Killian’s head falls on her shoulder, a heavy weight that shouldn’t be nearly as comfortable as it is and she grips the front of her jacket to keep them both upright. 

The ground shakes again. 

It probably has something to do with the appearance of the seeress. 

“Oh God, what the fuck,” Emma grumbles, working an entirely out of place laugh out of Killian. He kisses her shoulder again. 

“She does have absolutely horrible timing doesn’t she?”

The seeress doesn’t respond, but Emma can feel her staring at them – even with her hands covering her eyes. She, as always, looks exactly the same, like no time passed at all, but there’s _something_ slightly different, as if there’s a shift in the energy and the magic around her, and Emma can’t quite put her finger on it. 

She knows it’s important. 

The most important, maybe. 

“Are you making jokes now?” Emma asks, laugh shaky and watery. Killian grins. It’s entirely out of place, particularly when it appears the seeress’ shoulders are slumping in a decidedly defeated way, and Rumplestilskin is still making that God awful noise, but Emma hoards it anyway, trying to brand it on every inch of her memory because she knows. 

She knows what has to happen next. And the thought makes her want to collapse. 

There’s not enough time for that though, more noise coming from the tunnel, and Emma twists in a way her spine doesn’t appreciate. Ruby’s fingers are curled around her amulet, mouth hanging open. There are tears in her eyes as well. “Emma, can you--”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma interrupts. “Can you?”   
  
“Yuh huh. It was like, shit, I don’t even know, an earthquake or the first time I transformed. It was so strong. I’ve never known magic like that.”

“And you came here?”  
  
Ruby glares. “What else did you expect me to do? I--shit, you were gone again and you’d never come back, Emma. After that--” She runs a ragged hand over her face, Will wrapping an arm around her middle when she starts to wobble slightly. “It had to have reached back to Storybrooke too and--” She snaps her jaw shut, a sharp inhale as soon as her eyes pull away from Emma’s. “Oh dammit, all. Is that…”   
  
“Lady Lucas,” Killian murmurs, free hand working back around Emma and she has the growing suspicion he’s trying to touch as much of her. Before. She can’t bring herself to imagine the rest of that sentence. 

“It’s Captain now, isn’t it?”  
  
“Something like that.”

“Does someone want to explain what the hell is going on?” Will demands, and Emma can’t really blame him. His shoulders are heaving, clearly out of breath and she doesn’t spend too long wondering how they got there. Killian’s hand is still moving. 

Belle’s expression is unreadable – gaze penetrating, but she’s not looking at Emma. She’s staring straight at Killian with thin lips and wide eyes and Emma feels his magic stutter slightly under the force of it. “Ma’am,” he says. “I, um...I should thank--”  
  
“--Shut up,” Belle snaps. “Shut up, shut up, shut up. Was that...how much of what the sea witch said was right?”   
  
“Almost all of it.”   
  
“And Emma’s a princess?”   
  
“What?” Will shouts, but Belle is on a roll and if Emma weren’t so goddamn depressed, she’d also pretty impressed. 

Killian nods. “Aye. And I’m--”  
  
“--You have to let it happen, Dark One,” the seeress says, impossibly calm. That’s probably for the best since no one else is. Emma’s tears spill onto her cheeks and Ruby makes a noise that’s somewhere between a gag and a groan and Will has started shouting some rather impressive curses that Emma’s never heard before. 

Belle stays suspiciously silent. 

Killian’s fingers still. 

“Aye, I know.”

Rumplestilskin might be crying. It certainly sounds like it, soft whimpers and pained noises, and Emma’s spine is going to rise up in revolt of her and her movements and her magic. She moves anyway, hands flying back to Killian’s chest.

His arm shakes at his side. The one holding the sword. As if the sword knows. Gods, the sword probably _does_ know.

“What is she talking about, Killian?” Will asks, and Emma is legitimately impressed that he keeps demanding information. Something about stubborn and how it’s appropriate in the right circumstances or whatever. 

Killian swallows, a quick exhale that makes the ends of Emma’s hair flutter. “We have to do it, love,” he whispers. “This is--”  
  
Emma shakes her head. It’s pointless. She knows. She doesn’t care. Her neck shifts and her muscles protest and her magic makes the rocks at her feet float a few inches in the air. “No,” she argues, well aware that she’s simply wasting time. “There’s got to--”   
  
“There’s not, your highness,” the seeress says. “There never was.”   
  
“Wait, what?”

Killian pulls Emma closer to his side, the pressure on her skin likely leaving bruises because his magic is still fighting back and it must know. It has to. This is the end. “You said we couldn’t make the same mistake again,” he mutters. “What aren’t you telling us?  
  
Emma counts her breaths. Two in, a far-too-sudden exhale. Three in, way too wobbly to be helpful, but her exhale is a bit more measured that time. She swallows and licks her lips, does it again, waits and tries not to be too impatient, but she can practically hear Killian’s eyebrows move in frustration and Ruby makes a noise as soon as Rumplestilskin tries to move. 

She’s barely more than a flash, a few quick steps and teeth that are slightly longer than normal. Will and Belle follow her, their own eyes narrow and there’s no magic, but there’s definitely something resembling fury and Rumplestilskin cowers under the combined threat of them. 

“No need to get so snappy, dearie,” he mumbles, but that only draws another growl out of Ruby and she flexes her fingers in his face. 

There are claws there. 

He doesn’t say anything else. 

“What aren’t you telling us?” Killian demands again. The seeress still doesn’t respond, eyes falling to her feet and arms hanging limply at her side, and Emma’s exhale flies out of her in a burst of emotion and understanding. 

“No, no, no, no, that can’t be right,” she fumes, anger not entirely unexpected. It’s even worse because she knows it’s still pointless. 

She can’t stop crying. 

The seeress pulls her head up, staring at Emma like she can see her and--”Oh, bloody hell,” Killian mumbles. Emma flashes him a tight-lipped smile, his own realization settling on his face. He shakes his head. “The whole time?”  
  
Emma shrugs. “If she’ll actually tell us, but--”   
  
“It is,” the seeress says, and Will actually grabs a handful of dirt to throw in understandable annoyance. Most of it lands on his shoe. 

“What does that mean?”  
  
“Us,” Emma answers simply. “We always thought the prophecy only mentioned Killian and I once. The Swan and the Knight. That was--” 

Eventually, she will be incredibly disappointed that she can’t finish her sentences. She knows she’s on borrowed time and the sword is still shaking, a faint glow around the edges that’s only slightly menacing, but Emma can’t seem to get the words to form on her tongue and it’s her goddamn tongue again. 

It’s not really her tongue. 

She licks her lips, tugging them behind her teeth and she can only imagine what she looks like. Her cheeks hurt and her muscles ache, a pounding in the back of her head that might be her magic or just... _everything_ and Killian’s smile looks forced. 

“It was never about Rumplestilskin,” Emma whispers. “Not really. The future of magic and light in the dark. That’s us. Right?”

She turns towards the seeress, hands staying at her side, but the woman’s lips twitch slightly and her head nods slowly and--”I didn’t realize,” she says. “Not at first and that’s--”  
  
“--Not exactly doing a lot to inspire confidence,” Ruby sneers, Killian making a noise of agreement in the back of his throat. 

Emma curls herself closer to his side. She counts breaths again. And every swipe of his fingers.

The seeress nods once more, quiet defeat and an apology without actually saying the words. “Rumplestilskin believed he was the center of it all. As did we all. And he might have been at one point, but as I told you, things did not go according to plan. They were changed and the power of True Love influenced it all. We didn’t realize at first. That was a mistake, a foolish overlook of the kind of love that you and the pirate have.”  
  
“Fucking hell, we’re still on that,” Killian grumbles, and Emma can’t contain her laugh. He kisses the top of her hair again. 

“Things changed in that field. Decisions that could not be altered and it, in turn, altered the meaning of the prophecy. So, now you have a choice ahead of you Savior.”  
  
Emma scoffs. “Isn’t that always how it works?”   
  
“Your magic found me, Swan,” Killian says. “You weren’t trying to get here, right?” Emma shakes her head, and the puzzle pieces are starting to form an actual puzzle. That sucks. The picture is ugly. And she hates it. She’s still seriously considering collapsing. “Because magic was never going to be able to survive in this realm. The only way you’re going to be able to get back, to save magic, was if it got that spark.”   
  
“Awfully presumptuous of you,” she mumbles, drawing an incredulous laugh out him and she’s almost prepared for the way his mouth crashes against hers. 

It’s greedy. That’s the word for it. Like he’s trying to make up for lost time, which, really, is kind of absurd because she’d been ridiculously attracted to him from the moment she saw him in the hallway and the very first time she saw him and, honestly, fuck prophecy. 

She surges up, relishing whatever noise _that_ makes, one hand flying into Killian’s hair and the other curling around his shoulders, pulling him as close to her as she can. 

“Something about True Love, huh?” Killian mumbles against her mouth. He kisses away one of the tears that hangs on her cheek. “It’s ok, Swan.”  
  
“Bullshit.”

“Gods, but you’re stubborn.”  
  
“I’m not--I can’t do this again,” she admits, and the words sound weak even to her own ears. She can only imagine what they sound like to the rest of the universe. Pitiful. And pointless. And everyone keeps telling her there’s some kind of _choice_ and _options_ but Emma knows they’re all lying to her and there’s nothing except what she has to do. 

Save everyone, apparently. 

“I can’t,” Emma repeats. “Not after the last time.”  
  
“I wasn’t actually dead the last time.”

Emma makes the world’s most ridiculous noise. Ruby is a close second. “Shut up,” Emma mutters, but she can’t quite get the right amount of venom in her voice, and Killian grits his teeth again. His magic jumps, flares around him in a burst of shadow that makes Belle gasp and Will curse again. 

“You’ve got to do it, Swan.”  
  
“No.”   
  
“Emma.”   
  
“No,” she yells, the word scratching its way out of her. It hurts, a dull throb in the very center of her that makes her limbs quiver and her heart lurch and she keeps breathing through her mouth. “I--it’ll be real this time,” she whispers. “And I--”

Killian ducks his head, one side of his mouth tugged up. He moves his hand again, drifting up and down her spine and resting on the side of her hip, fingers brushing underneath the hem of her shirt. “It’s got to happen, love,” he says, all matter-of-fact and certain and Emma knows he’s only doing it so she won’t simply wilt in front of him. She hates it. “It was us the whole time. The key to defeating darkness.” He nods towards the sword in his hand, the tip of the blade sitting between bit of rubble. “We did that.”

“Oh, fuck that.”  
  
It works another chuckle and an even quicker kiss out of him, the force of it almost bruising. He’s still trying to make sure he remembers it. Or she remembers it. No matter what happens next. No matter where he ends up. 

And, really, she’s not sure what possesses her to say the next few words, but the next few words simply start spilling out of her and Emma imagines it’s probably got something to do with cyclical forces and the universe and the power of True Love. 

“I was fourteen,” she starts, Killian’s eyes widening slightly at an understandably unexpected story, but there’s blue in his gaze and the other side of his mouth moves, “and it was the first time I’d been able to get out of the castle in weeks. It had snowed and that one passage out of the garden had been blocked. 

And I asked David for help. We must have spent hours outside, we used magic and our hands and melted the entire snow pile and it took forever, but then he--oh, shit.” Emma sniffles again, unwilling to move her hands or wipe away the tears that won’t stop falling. “Anyway, um...I got out and it was only long enough to just see you, but you said--”  
  
“--Even a few minutes were better than nothing,” Killian finishes, his own eyes turning slightly glossy. He nods quickly, lips ghosting over Emma’s forehead. 

“That was it.”  
  
“That was what?”   
  
“When I knew. I--even a few minutes were better than nothing. I’d take them all. Covet them, even. Because it’s always been you, Killian. Always.”

He leans back, expression stunned for a moment, but then it’s a bit like staring straight into the sun and there’s no shadow, nothing except how clearly and completely he loves her back and Emma’s shoulders shake with the force of her sobs. 

“Every single time, Swan.”

She nods, not sure if she’s agreeing or convincing herself or, simply, accepting fate, but maybe those few minutes are all she needs and Killian’s fingers are warm when hers curl around them. The sword underneath them is cool. 

Killian’s cheek brushes against the side of her hair, a jerk of his head that Emma knows is supposed to be encouraging. He presses another kiss to her temple, a mumbled _it’s ok_ and it’s not, it’s absolutely not, but then he’s taking a step back and his lips are pressed together and Emma can see the determination in his gaze. 

Blue. Bright blue. 

“I love you,” she says. 

He tongue flashes between his lips. “I love you.”

She’ll do her best to not ever think about it again. She’ll try and forget it and ignore it, the pain that sparks in every inch of her, like she’s the one with a goddamn sword piercing her, but it will never actually work. 

Emma will remember every second in excruciating detail – how heavy the blade is in her hand, like it’s aware of what she's about to do, the sound it makes when it moves through Killian, the slight resistance there because he’s so _human_ and so _alive_ , but then there’s another noise echoing around her and it takes Emma a moment to realize it’s coming from him. 

It’s worse than it was in the field, a cry that settles in between each one of Emma’s ribs, taking up residence between her joints and her muscles and it will play on loop in her memory for days. 

He falls forward, chin colliding with her shoulder. It takes all her strength not to drop with him, knees buckling under the sudden weight she’s trying to balance. His hand moves without much purpose against her face, thumb pulling at skin and pressing against her cheek, breathing turning labored. 

There’s light. It flares and sparks around them, a surge of power and burst of heat that contradicts the feeling of absolute emptiness Emma can feel slinking down her spine. She twists her hand around the front of Killian’s jacket, pressing her forehead against his and she can already see him struggling to keep breathing. 

She pulls the sword back. 

Another noise. Even worse. 

And he looks like _him_ , the him she’s known and loved and _waited for_ , the one who promised _a few minutes_ and called her Swan and believed no matter what. The sword dissolves in her hand, the hilt falling out of her grip with a soft thud. 

Killian sways, hand reaching out and Emma can barely see him through the tears in her eyes, but it only takes a moment to notice the darkness forming just underneath his left jacket sleeve and she wraps both her arms around him when his legs, finally, give up. 

He’s impossibly pale. 

“No, no, no, no,” she mumbles, twisting so he’s flat on his back and she can’t stop moving her hands. She traces over him, sure the weight she’s resting on his chest can’t be helping, but being anything except as close to him as possible is a thought Emma can’t even begin to process. 

Killian doesn’t say anything. 

His head lolls to the side, a soft exhale that feels like the end of everything and, Emma supposes, in a way it is. 

She can’t feel anything. 

“No,” she repeats, shaking at his shoulder. Nothing. No response. No movement. 

Nothing. Nothing. _Nothing_. 

Her breath shakes out of her, a stinging that might be the state of her lungs or her magic and she can dimly hear movement behind her. 

“Thank you, Savior,” the seeress murmurs, crouching next to Emma and she has a response. She does. Something about _fucking off_ , she’s sure, but she’s far too busy crying and her neck does not seem all that interested in supporting her head anymore. Her forehead falls to Killian’s chest, more misplaced weight and white-knuckle grips, but then the seeress is moving again and she’s trying to take him. 

“No,” Emma cries, hopeful, someday, she’ll say something else. She pulls Killian’s hand into hers, holding on like that will make the difference. 

He’s freezing cold already. 

The seeress doesn’t respond. She doesn’t lift her head, just bows her neck and mumbles a few words under breath and there’s suddenly nothing under Emma’s hand. 

Nothing. Nothing. _Nothing_. 

“Holy shit,” Will breathes, and Emma isn’t sure what’s going on behind her, but it sounds like a punch lands on skin and Rumplestilskin makes another noise of absolute despair. 

She almost understands. 

And the hand on her shoulder makes her flinch, Ruby’s mumbled words barely audible over the buzzing in Emma’s ears. She stands up without realizing her brain has decided to do that, locked knees and parted lips and Ruby cups both of Emma’s cheeks in her hand. 

She doesn’t say anything – there isn’t really anything to say – but she doesn’t blink and Ruby doesn’t stumble when Emma quickly and easily goes to pieces. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are so inclined to come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) please don't yell too loudly. There's a lot of story left. (And an attempt to include as much canon as possible in this AU, so keep that in mind.)
> 
> But, seriously, thanks for reading.


	14. Chapter 14

It’s sunny out. 

Strictly speaking, Emma finds that absolutely and completely offensive. 

She resents it, honestly, the heat on her cheeks and the tiny pinpricks of sweat on the back of her neck, small beads of moisture that fall down her skin in a pattern she can’t begin to think about. She’s far too busy being wholly and entirely pissed off. 

And that’s not even really right. 

Pissed off would suggest that she feels anything. 

At all. 

She doesn’t. 

She feels nothing. An empty shell of withering magic and a distinct lack of True Love because it’s been four days and she hasn’t done much except snap her eyes open when that same sun peeks through the curtains of her apartment, tug on a pair of jeans and t-shirt that are both in desperate need of soap, and slide her feet into sandals that have a hole in the bottom. 

Only on the right side. 

Even her fucked up sandals are wrong. 

Emma assumes that’s par for the course now, or something. But she puts them on anyway, trudging down the stairs and never bothering to check if the door behind her is locked. She’s not sure where the _bad guys_ have gone, is fairly certain she doesn’t care at all and even more positive that Mary Margaret and David are taking care of it, but if they are still some sort of threat Emma is not entirely opposed to them, simply, ransacking her apartment. 

None of it feels right anymore anyway. The jeans are too scratchy and the shirts are strange, a red leather jacket that she feels like she _needs_ but can’t quite wrap her mind around, so different from flowing gowns and shoes that very rarely had holes in them and even further removed from rags and magically repaired stitches. 

She genuinely hopes someone robs her. 

It would give her something to do, paperwork to fill out or a gun to brandish and maybe she could even test out her magic. Emma hasn’t really tried to do anything, the fluttering at the ends of her fingers a reminder of what she’s had and lost and won’t get back, and she’s well aware that everyone is walking on eggshells around her. 

They glance at her and look away quickly, lips pressed together and nostrils flaring in unspoken concern. They mutter under their breath when she stalks down Main Street, which is an absolutely atrocious word, but even Emma can’t come up with another descriptor for what she’s been doing. 

She stalks. 

In her broken sandals. 

And sits. At the end of the dock, sandals next to her because she may be drifting towards the edge of several different mental states, but she’s, at least, got the wherewithal to make sure her sandals don’t fall in the ocean. 

It’s a slim victory, but it’s one she’s going to hold onto with both hands.

Because she’s not sure what happens next. Or, rather, isn’t willing to acknowledge what has to happen next. 

They have to go back to Misthaven. 

And she’s got to get them there. Somehow. With her recharged magic and Isaac’s stupid, bloody pen and neither one of those things are particularly appealing because both of those things mean leaving Storybrooke. 

Emma also can’t wrap her mind around those specific words in that very specific order. 

She takes a deep breath, more salt-tinged air and humidity that she’s sure she can taste at this point, hair curling over the sides of her shoulders. 

The water under her feet keeps moving. She’s kind of offended by that too. The water should be more aware of what’s going on, take a moment to mourn as well, and Emma is quick to realize she hasn’t cried much in the last few days. 

Four days. 

It’s been four days. 

There was no body, so there wasn’t really a _funeral_ , but there was a magically-formed plot in the graveyard that Storybrooke inexplicably has. And Ruby’s muttered joke about _good planning on Regina’s part_ falls impossibly flat, Mary Margaret’s eyes bugging and David scowling and Emma doesn’t respond. 

That’s becoming a bit of a trend. 

And the sun had shone then too, bright rays and more heat and some kind of misplaced metaphor about _being alive_ that Emma resolutely refused to acknowledge. It didn’t matter. The metaphor took root in her brain, sinking into every facet of her being and she can’t get that goddamn Céline Dion song out of her head. 

It’s ironic. 

Or something. 

Obnoxious, maybe. That’s probably a better word for it. 

Emma sighs, body slumping like the rest of her muscles have given up as well and, for the second time, she’s loathe to realize that he would absolutely hate this. He’d glance at her – in all of her depressing and lack-of-muscle glory, eyebrow arching and the ends of his mouth curling, and he’d tell her to _stop that, love, it’s not worth it_ , which is just--   
  
“That’s absurd,” Emma says out loud, probably a sign of that impending insanity and that would make him smirk at her. 

He’d do something stupid with his tongue. She’s positive. She’s…

“Oh, fuck,” she breathes. Her breath catches, teeth digging into her lower lip until she can feel blood. The salt in the air turns overpowering, the taste of it finding its way into her mouth and it’s a strange counterbalance to the bitter tang of blood. Emma swallows, squeezing her eyes shut. 

It doesn’t help. 

The world spins and her stomach lurches, a burst of magic behind her eyelids that feels like a small supernova. 

She hates the cyclical nature of it all. 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Emma chants, doing her best to not start panting. That doesn’t worth either. Damn. Fuck, damn, shit, god fucking it all to fucking hell. “Get a goddamn grip.”

She doesn’t mean to follow her own advice so literally, but there is a dock right underneath her and Emma is slightly worried she’s actually going to fall into the ocean at some point. 

That water isn’t very deep. 

She’ll probably break something. 

Then, at least, it will be obvious.

“Shit, that’s melodramatic,” she grumbles. She needs to stop talking to herself. She needs to start talking to other people. 

She knows Regina is frustrated she hasn’t tried talking to Isaac yet. And Emma’s got some increasingly horrible suspicions about Isaac and the longevity of his pen and she’s fully aware that she’s on borrowed time, but that means limited time here by this water and a different dock than the first dock and--

The tears that land on her cheek sting her skin. 

Like they’re branding her. Magically. It’s ridiculous. 

And she doesn’t hear the footsteps at first, is far too preoccupied with consistent oxygen to her brain and at least a few of her major organs, but then the footsteps are a pair and he’d tell her _they’re joined at the hip, love, did you think they’d stage an intervention any other way_?

“Idiot,” Emma mumbles, mostly to a ghost she isn’t entirely sure she wants to shake. She’s insane. That’s it’s. 

That’s the only answer. 

_At least we’re not like that, huh? Able to function on our own, right?_

He definitely smirks and his eyes flash, the end of his tongue making his cheek protrude in a way that’s equal parts ridiculous and endearing and--

“Em,” David says cautiously, a soft hand falling on her shoulder and Emma doesn’t flinch. That’s also a victory. 

Two victories at this point is very impressive. 

Emma swallows, the blood only just lingering in her mouth. Her tongue flashes between dry lips, and she’s only a little confident that she’s actually got ChapStick in her apartment. She’s not sure how they got stuff in their apartments to begin with. 

She hasn’t really asked Regina much about the specifics of the curse. Or if they’ll be required to pack things before going back to Misthaven. 

She kind of wants to bring her coffee maker with her. Just, like, maybe magically enhance it so it doesn’t make that awkward squeaking noise when it’s been used for too long. 

“Em,” David repeats, like she hadn’t heard him before and isn’t simply ignoring him. She makes a noise in the back of her throat, something that might be an agreement, but he also hasn’t actually asked a question and Emma doesn’t need to pull her eyes away from the waves to know that David’s gaze flits towards Mary Margaret. 

_Staring at her like he’s looking for marching orders. Do you think our very brave captain of the guard genuinely enjoys plaid as much as he’s been making it seem these last few cursed years or is he simply too stubborn to admit it’s a horrible fashion choice?_

Emma scoffs, not quite a laugh and Mary Margaret clicks her tongue. “Don’t do that,” Emma warns, and she might not actually be talking to Mary Margaret. 

Insane. Absolutely. 

She might just jump into the ocean at this point. 

“I’m sorry,” Mary Margaret whispers, which isn’t _exactly_ the worst thing she could ever say, but it’s pretty damn close and Emma’s neck cracks when she twists around. Her eyebrows pull low when she notices the expression staring at her, glossy eyes and thin lips and David seems incapable of staying still. 

He rocks back and forth, eyes looking anywhere except Emma. She doesn’t blink. She breathes, which is a step in the right direction – _three in and four out, Swan, or your lungs will disintegrate and I really do enjoy your lungs_ – trying not to consider all the incredibly horrible things that they could be there to report. 

“Do you know what happened to Ursula?” 

Mary Margaret’s eyes bulge. It’s gross. Bulge is a gross word. “What?”  
  
“Ursula,” Emma repeats, swinging her legs back onto the dock so she can rest her chin on her knees. “I’ve just--I’ve been wondering, I mean--”   
  
“--Is it because you’ve been staring at the water?” David asks, a bit of sarcasm in the question and that almost makes it easier to get oxygen to those organs. 

Emma’s lips quirk. “No one’s really needed me for anything else.”  
  
“Oh, you can’t possibly think that.”   
  
“Eh,” she shrugs. “I’m sure her majesty has got it all figured out and you guys--did we actually come up with titles? I mean, if Regina’s going to be overlord of all of us…”   
  
“I don’t think she’d appreciate that title,” Mary Margaret reasons. She drops next to Emma, careful not to nudge the sandals, but her face shifts slightly when she notices the state the sandals are in and insanity, at least, affords a fairly good excuse for laughing like a crazy person. “It’s kind of...you know, aggressive.”   
_  
What she’d deserve, don’t you think, love? Those in supreme power and ultimate control should be willing to bend to the wants of the people. _

Emma scowls at her, pointedly ignoring whatever look that sparks between David and Mary Margaret. “Honestly,” she says. “There’s got to be an official hierarchy now, right? Regina up top and c’mon, M’s, what are you? I know it’s there. I know it.”  
  
Mary Margaret sighs. 

And David answers. 

“Captain of the guard and--” He huffs, gritted teeth and an uncomfortable air around him that Emma probably shouldn’t appreciate. She tries not to laugh. It doesn’t work. “Her royal highness, the grand princess, Mary Margaret.”

Emma has to wrap her arms around her waist to stay upright. Her whole body shakes with the force of her laughter, David’s quiet mumblings barely making it to her ears, until Mary Margaret is laughing as well, a little cautious and decidedly quiet, like she’s not sure if it’s appropriate and it probably isn’t, but then it’s easier and louder and Emma doesn’t totally hate the tears in her eyes that time. 

“Oh my God,” Emma chuckles. She drags the backs of her knuckles against her skin, likely leaving red streaks in her wake, but it feels like another step and maybe she should throw her sandals away later. 

“It’s kind of ridiculous,” Mary Margaret admits. 

“Kind of?”  
  
“You’re more than welcome to grand princess’dom.”   
  
“Nah, I’m good, thanks.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”   
  
“Did you just?”   
  
Mary Margaret rolls her eyes – and there goes any smile. Her tongue darts between her lips again and it might be Emma’s small intestine, twisting and knotting and decidedly painful when she sits up straighter again. “I did,” Mary Margaret promises softly. “I’ve--Emma, you are wanted here, you have to know that.”   
  
She doesn’t answer. She might hum, is dimly aware of some kind of noise working its way out of her, but it is disingenuous at best. 

Mary Margaret looks distraught. And it requires some finagling and David’s hands on her waist, sure arms and ridiculous upper-body strength, but he takes her grumbling in stride, muttering _just don’t flail your arms into me_ when he moves her. The dock creaks precariously underneath them, all three sitting far too close and Emma definitely elbows him in the side more than once. 

_Don’t run, love, it’s ok. It’s going to be ok._

“It’s going to be ok, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, and she can’t possibly know. Well, that’s probably wrong too. Mary Margaret knows and Ruby knows and even Regina, in all her hierarchy and power-focused glory, knows. 

That’s why they’ve all kept their distance. That’s why they wouldn’t let Emma sit in her apartment when she managed to teleport them to Storybrooke, a last-ditch magical effort that left her legs feeling like jello and half-cooked pasta. 

Because there’s a place. 

And a group. And, maybe, eventually, it will be ok. 

Just not now. 

“How did you decide on the royal titles?”  
  
“Belle helped,” Mary Margaret says, and Emma should have figured that. They’d arrived on the Storybrooke town line two days before because, as Will said, _if that idiot is getting a funeral, then we’re going to be here_ and Emma couldn’t argue with that. 

She wanted them there. 

“She’s a genius, you know that,” David continues. “Honestly, and there’s a ton of books in that library below the clock tower we didn’t even know were there, stuff Regina had--”

Emma’s neck cracks again. He squeezes one eye shut. “What?” she snaps. “Stuff that Regina had what? Dark magic shit?”  
  
“Emma,” Mary Margaret cries, but she doesn’t turn her head, just keeps staring at David with magic searing through every one of her veins and the dock starts to shake. 

“It’s ok,” he says. His voice is steady, calm, even, a soft determination and confidence that reminds Emma of snow drifts and castle walls and she presses her teeth together so hard her jaw pops. 

None of these things should be happening to her body. 

She assumes it comes from a lack of sleep. 

She hasn’t really been sleeping. 

_It’s not good for you, Swan, staring at the ceiling like that every night. You get headaches when you’re tired. And grumpy_. 

Emma huffs out an exhale, surprise coloring the sound. David doesn’t blink. 

_Don’t do that, darling, you know you do. Despise the mornings like they exist solely to ruin your day before they begin. They’ll get there earlier if you don’t try and sleep beforehand._

Emma takes a deep breath, a measured inhale and even slower exhale, letting her fingers flutter at her side and the bits of light hanging from the ends of her hair disappear. That’s the first time that’s happened in four days. 

_Impressive. That could get you home. You’ve got to go home, Swan._

It’s silent after that. Almost too silent. The echo in between Emma’s ears is far too vast and entirely too depressing, breathing staying normal and maybe even a bit hopeful, but part of her mind reaches out for the voice again and she wants, wants... _misses_. Him. 

Completely. And totally. 

Her hand moves back towards her neck, searching for something that isn’t there and she hasn’t been able to find it. She’s looked. More than once. More times than she can count. 

She even moved the coffee maker. 

But the ring isn’t there and she doesn’t know where it is and Emma isn’t sure why _that_ makes it feel as if every inch of her is slowly, but surely turning to ash, but thinking about it for too long makes it difficult to remember anything else. 

Anything good. 

_You can’t stay here, love. We both know it. We knew it before you got here_. 

“Ursula,” Emma repeats, and David’s mouth twitches with something that may actually be pride That’s kind of nice. His thumb reaches out, brushing away tears she’d almost forgotten she was still crying and the touch leave goosebumps in his wake. 

Mary Margaret shifts slightly, wrapping her fingers around Emma’s wrist and keeping her own thumb steady over her pulse point, a light pressure that feels almost grounding against suddenly aggressive waves. 

“When you--” David starts, gritting his teeth at the thought of saying the next few words. 

Emma tries to smile. “It’s ok.”  
  
“You’re an awful liar, anyone ever tell you that?”   
  
“Yeah,” she laughs. “Several thousand times, I think.”   
  
“Smart guy.”   
  
“Sometimes.”   
  
“Anyway, uh....well, you saved everything, Em. According to Regina and even what Belle was able to find in those books--”   
  
“--Not dark magic, by the way,” Mary Margaret interjects, and David chuckles when Emma rolls her eyes. “Just...we’ll get to that part eventually.”   
  
Emma hisses in a breath. “That’s foreboding.”   
  
“We are bearers of a variety of news,” David admits. “But you’re making it very difficult to stay on task here and--”   
  
“--Is there a schedule?” Emma asks. He nods. “Figures.”   
  
“Try not to interrupt again, ok?” She sticks her tongue out. And she’s not really sure what happens next, only because the whole thing happens so quickly she’s not even sure it _does_ happen, but David jerks forward and his lips ghost over the top of her forehead and--”You saved us, Emma. Every one of us. The Darkness wouldn’t have stopped, no matter what Killian tried to do.”

He winces at the use of the name, realizing belatedly that Emma hasn’t in the last four days and she can’t shake off his apology with Mary Margaret’s fingers digging into the back of her wrist. 

“It’s ok.”  
  
“God, the lying.”   
  
“Ok, ok, but I mean…” Emma snaps her jaw several times, not sure how to phrase the words and the waves get stronger. “Well, Rumplestilskin had a point. I kind of made the problem myself. I just--I didn’t think he’d kill him.”

“That’s the part we don’t entirely understand,” Mary Margaret admits, not much more than a whisper. “When we were still home you said a woman in a field told you that the sword you’d given Killian could destroy the Dark One.”  
  
Emma shakes her head, disappointment rattling down her spine and threatening to yank her vertebrae out of her back. It’s a disgusting thought. “Nah, that’s not really what she said. She said it would cut ties. That we’d created something with our True Love--”   
  
“--I knew it was True Love.”   
  
“Yeah, fat lot of good that’s done me,” Emma snaps. “Sorry that was super shitty, huh?”   
  
“Eh, you haven’t heard the rest of our story yet.”   
  
“M’s, the foreboding shit has got to stop.”   
  
She hums, half a smile and repentant eyes. “You two left,” she says, and it’s not the accusation it probably could be. “To use the sword, right?”   
  
“The woman. The one in the field, she wasn’t--Killian didn’t think she was human and she...she knew things. Said she knew what he’d be willing to do. I--I didn’t think that would be dying. That’s seems unfair, doesn’t it?”   
  
“Absolutely,” David promises, another quick kiss and arm slung around her shoulders. She’s going to sweat to death at the end of that dock. “But he would have done more, Em. You’ve got to know that.”

She nods. Or hums. Maybe both. Emma’s lost control of most of her limbs. “Yeah, I do,” she whispers. “I just...it was us the whole time. The whole stupid prophecy. All that work George did for nothing, huh? I should have killed Rumplestilskin as soon as I saw him.”  
  
“You wouldn’t be you if you had.”   
  
“That’s also shitty.”

“No,” Mary Margaret objects lightly, tugging on the front of Emma’s shirt. It takes her a moment to realize it’s exactly where her ring would normally land. “That’s good. And that’s what you are, Emma, good. To the depths of your soul and the tips of your fingers. David is right, you saved all of us. It’s how we’re going to get home.”  
  
“Explain that.”   
  
“Belle thinks magic got....retracted,” David starts. “So, this is where it gets kind of confusing.”   
  
“Gets,” Emma echoes in disbelief. 

He makes a noise in the back of her throat and her laugh is wrong. It’s scratchy and shaky, but it’s almost there and--

_Sounds alright to me, love_. 

“Ok, so...here we go.” David nods once, which Emma will eventually think is kind of weird, but in the moment she’s very curious and a little exhausted and Mary Margaret’s nails are pinching her skin. “We were in Misthaven. There was the mob and the pitchforks and Regina--”

“--Refusing to believe in the sword,” Emma finishes. 

Mary Margaret nudges in the side. It’s not subtle. “She thought the curse was a good idea.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“She did,” David nods, and Emma gets the feeling she’s being grounded. These are not her parents. “Anyway, I’m going to start keeping track of your interruptions and tell Granny not to let you have any coffee or something.”

“If we don’t bring any coffee back to Misthaven, I’m telling you I’m not going. Whatever sludge we had there makes me want to gag.”  
  
“You’re a picture of refinement, princess.”

“Tell the goddamn story, David!”

He salutes, which is only a little ridiculous, but also entirely expected and Emma’s smile twists her mouth before she can think better of it. “You were gone,” he says simply. “We were fighting and I...turned around and nothing. And we know Ruby let you go, which, that’s a discussion for another day, but--”  
  
“--We also know you were doing what you thought was right,” Mary Margaret adds. 

Emma widens her eyes. “Are you going to take away her coffee?”  
  
He doesn’t acknowledge her. 

“The mob got bigger,” he continues, “but then it got...well, weird. It was as if the spell had been lifted and--”  
  
“--That was probably around the time I pulled the darkness out of Rumplestilskin.”   
  
“See, we weren’t aware of that.”

Emma’s shoulders drop. “Yeah, I know that. And, I um...I mean, I know I should have left, but I...it was wrong,” she admits, words she’s been trying not to voice for the last four days because she knows everything she’d done was selfish and a word far worse than that, but she _couldn’t_ or _wouldn’t_ and she’s going to scratch her neck if she keeps clawing at her own skin like that. 

“I shouldn’t have done it,” Emma whispers. “He didn’t want me to, said he wouldn’t be able to...it would have been too easy to give into the darkness.”  
  
“He didn’t entirely though,” Mary Margaret points out, a bit of unsurprising hope when a few clouds start to dot the sky. “Not really.”   
  
“The light in the dark,” David adds. “That was you, Em. For him.”   
  
“God, that’s sentimental.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s kind of True Love’s schtick, isn’t it?”   
  
“You guys would know.”   
  
He grimaces – not the response Emma expected and she still hasn’t gotten answers to any of her questions. 

“See, that’s kind of the crux of why we’re here.”  
  
Emma blinks. “The giving me space wasn’t entirely giving me space, was it?”   
  
“We sound like assholes that way.”   
  
“Well…”

He barks out a laugh, shaking a few birds off a nearby power line and Emma is going to miss electricity too. Mary Margaret has to let go of her hand to wave her own, calming the birds and mumbling words under her breath. 

David’s breath hitches. 

“You said Belle believes magic kind of pulled in on itself,” Emma says slowly, as if taking time on each letter will make them easier to understand. “Was that...ok, so darkness got defeated and all the good magic--”  
  
“--Your magic,” Mary Margaret amends.   
  
“Savior magic?” David nods, mumbling something that sounds like _keep going_ under his breath. “So, that um...that kind of yanked everything back here to Storybrooke because that’s where we landed after the curse and that was--what’s an appropriate cliché for that?”   
  
“Eye of the storm.”   
  
“Oh, that’s good, actually.”   
  
“Granny came up with that,” Mary Margaret mutters. “Don’t let him take credit for it.”

Emma scoffs, another slightly pitiful laugh. “Ok, ok, so we’re here and in the center of it all and that means the rest of this realm is...magicless? Again?”  
  
“Ding, ding, ding,” David says. “So, really, you don’t have to worry about any of the lackies you left behind in New York because they’re stuck. No magic, no nothing. You kind of yanked it with you when you got rid of the Dark One.”   
  
“Killian.”   
  
David shakes his head. “The Dark One.”   
  
“And its minions,” Emma adds, appreciating whatever his face does when he corrects him. Mary Margaret’s laughing. “We decided on minions and I don’t think it’s right, at this point in the story, to start calling them something different just because you can’t remember. I think that’s a sign of you age, o ye captain of the guard.”

He scowls, but there’s no frustration in it – just generic gratitude and that same sense of pride that Emma is very quickly starting to hoard and hold, a soft glow in the center of her that makes her remember good things and good moments and--

_You’ve got to be able to let me go, love. You have to._

Emma exhales, far too much emotion. She’ll be damned if she cries again. “How did we get here, though?”

Mary Margaret stops laughing. Suddenly. Abruptly. And David’s whole body goes stiff, lips all but disappearing from his face, the top line of his teeth obvious as soon as he digs them far enough down that Emma is briefly worried about his chin. 

She lowers her brows. “I just...I guess I’ve been wondering about that for a little while, why Regina would pick Maine and middle of nowhere Maine really, we’re not even near Boston or anything and--why did we remember that we had magic if we didn’t remember who we were and--you know, maybe I should just ask her, do you guys have paper or something? I should have a list of demands or whatever.”

Emma pushes up, wobbly, but incredibly determined legs, and she barely regains her center of balance before it’s threatened again, David’s fingers yanking at her wrist. She gapes at him, magic flaring in self-defense. 

That’s weird. 

She can see him swallow, a tension in his jaw and terror in his gaze and they’ve _won_. The minions are magicless. She could not possibly care less what happened to Rumplestilskin. 

There should be no more terror. 

There should be--

“It was us,” Mary Margaret whispers. 

Emma’s lungs evaporate. It’s painful. And not. Which is also weird. It’s kind of...empty again, a return to _husk form_ and that is another terrible word, but Emma’s body suddenly feels very brittle and incredibly fragile, like one good gust of wind or another secret could shatter her completely. 

She lifts her eyebrows that time. 

“What? What does that mean?”  
  
“Us,” Mary Margaret repeats, tears already streaming down her cheeks and David is going to have to look up spells on how to replace body parts. His lips are just...gone. “Us. Not Regina. The, um...the curse. We cast it.”

Emma is a little disappointed at her reaction. More specifically – her lack of reaction. She doesn’t move She doesn’t blink or open her mouth. She stares ahead at open water and choppy waves. She wishes she could do something. 

She wants to do something. 

_Desperately_. 

She wants to scream and shout and _he’d remembered her_ , even when they were cursed and after they were cursed and he kept trying to find a way back. Her magic had pulled her to him.

Emma doesn’t do any of those things. 

She inhales, tongue swiping over the front of her teeth, and pulling her hand out of David’s grip. “How is that possible?” Emma asks, a picture of poise that is, very likely, the worst lie she’s ever told in her life. 

Mary Margaret sniffles. “You said it yourself. When we were--in the throne room.” It’s strange that she can’t call Misthaven home anymore. “When Regina was talking about the curse, she said that the only way to enact it was to crush the heart of the thing you love the most. And she--well, there wasn’t really another option.”  
  
“Nope. Try that again. Because what you just told me doesn’t make any sense.”   
  
“It does,” Mary Margaret says, voice turning almost pleading. “It’s...ok, you said it, Emma! Regina didn’t have anyone. No one that she felt strongly enough about to send us here.”   
  
“Seems like a shitty curse to suggest then.” She resists the growing urge to pace, far too aware of the lack of sandals on her feet, opting, instead, to fist her hands at her side and whatever noise she makes doesn’t sound particularly human. “Ok, ok, ok,” Emma mumbles, a pitiful attempt at psyching herself up for the rest of this conversation. “So...how do you guys factor into this? I don’t--”   
  
Emma cuts herself off, nearly snapping her tongue in half in the process. Her magic flares, beams of light at the tips of her fingers and a circle around her right knee and it takes her one quick jerk of her arms and narrowed eyes for it to disappear. 

She can still feel it, the pulse of it beating out a steady rhythm in her ears, but it’s the first time in...ever, maybe, that she’s been that controlled. She’s never felt that confident. Ever.

“Damn,” David breathes, a hand running through his hair and Emma can’t even bring herself to be annoyed by the glance he shoots Mary Margaret. 

Mostly because Mary Margaret doesn’t react. 

She’s staring at Emma – a mix of trepidation and regret and knowing about True Love before just about anyone else. 

“You could feel David’s magic here,” Emma says. “That never happened in Misthaven. You told me that.”

Mary Margaret nods slowly, chewing on the side of her tongue. “I think that’s why this is...our fault. Kind of.”  
  
“Kind of?”   
  
“Entirely.”   
  
“Explain that,” Emma mutters, but the words sound more like a demand and Mary Margaret nods quicker that time. 

“Regina couldn’t cast the curse. You were--we knew you’d gone to find the Dark One, but, like David said, the mob kind of lost its will at some point. And then it was...a disaster, honestly. It was people from town with magic and without magic and all of them questioning us and what we were going to do and where you had gone and the pirate threat.”

Emma scoffs at that, working half a smile out of Mary Margaret. David reaches for both of their hands. “So, we were trying to fix everything and we had no idea what had happened. We...we tried to find you, Emma. We couldn’t.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“We couldn’t,” David echoes. “Scoured the whole kingdom, even went towards that hill you had talked about, but there was no one there. It was--” He shakes his head at the memory, all teeth and obvious regret. “It was like we were being pushed away from it. I could barely keep my feet when I got there.”   
  
“Magic?”   
  
“Kind of makes it seem like it’s very possible that you could pull all the magic in this realm to Storybrooke, huh? And keep people from getting in.”   
  
“You think that was me?” Emma shouts, disbelief ringing in the suddenly-heavy air around them. David shrugs. “I wasn’t---I wasn’t trying to do that, though. Especially not here. That’s insane.”   
  
“A savior and the protector of magic,” David reasons. “It really makes sense, Em. It makes more sense at home. If you were...what were you waiting for?”

Emma doesn’t answer. Can’t. Won’t. The specifics really don’t matter, not when the questions sitting on the tip of her tongue are getting heavier the longer they stay there. 

Mary Margaret winces. “We couldn’t find you,” she mutters. “But we were, well I was, hopeful, at least, that you were still in the kingdom and Regina was certain the curse would only pull in the people we wanted it to.”  
  
“That’s why Killian didn’t come with it. The darkness got in the way.”   
  
“I’m so sorry, Emma.”   
  
“I still don’t understand why.”

“I told you,” Mary Margaret murmurs, and it’s getting more and more difficult to understand her when her tears keep falling faster and faster. “It was us. We didn’t think we had any other options. We--the curse made sense, hiding in a different realm and even if the magic disappeared eventually, well...we’d be together, wouldn’t we?”  
  
“Not all of us.”   
  
“I know, I know, but we didn’t--”   
  
“--Know that Rumplestilskin had tried to kill Killian.”   
  
“Exactly.”   
  
“So…”   
  
“So. Regina said the only way to get here was to crush the heart, but there was no one. And Ruby wouldn’t do it, so that left--”   
  
“--Us,” David cuts in, the letters hard and defensive. “Hurt like hell.”

Emma’s left knee gives out. Only her left one. She’s worried she’s got splinters in her foot. “What, that’s--what?” she sputters, breathless and stunned and her head hurts. “How is that possible? Mary Margaret crushed your heart?”  
  
He hums. “Yeah, I’ll admit I was kind of selfish about it. I wasn’t all that interested in killing her and we weren’t sure if it would work, so…”

“What wouldn’t work?”  
  
“I couldn’t kill him,” Mary Margaret explains. “I--I can’t even think about doing that, even now, I...”   
  
“Yeah, I get that,” Emma mumbles, earning a soft smile and cool palm on her cheek. 

“I know you do. And that’s why I am so sorry. I am...I won’t ever be able to tell you how sorry I am because I think that’s what messed it all up.” She swallows, a quick exhale that reeks of determination and Emma’s smile is very out of place. “I’d heard about it,” Mary Margaret adds, “the idea that one heart could exist in two bodies. Regina agreed that it should be possible.”  
  
“David’s not dead, though.”   
  
“Yeah, it worked out pretty well, huh?” he quips, and Emma doesn’t consider her feet before she kicks him in the shin. 

“It all happened very quickly and so impossibly slowly,” Mary Margaret continues. “Regina took his heart and it--I’d forgotten....what it felt like, but as soon as the curse broke, that’s the first thing I remembered, the feel of it in my hand, not quite ash, but scratchier, like it was carving into me.

And he was dead. He was. Right in front of me. The magic was already starting to move, a sea of purple and a cloud of power and Regina’s hand in my chest.”  
  
“Shit,” Emma mumbles, Mary Margaret humming in agreement. 

“That’s about the best way to describe it. I felt like I was getting ripped apart.”  
  
“You were.”   
  
Mary Margaret scrunches her nose. “Well, it hurt. And then Regina was snapping it in half and that hurt even more. The rest is all a little blurry, but I kind of remember her putting half of my heart into David. And I know, I think I know, at least, I heard him breathing again before the cloud touched us and then we were--”   
  
“--Here?”   
  
“Here,” Mary Margaret repeats. “Middle of nowhere Maine.” She lets out a watery laugh when Emma does the same and for a moment they’re not much more than twisted limbs and foreheads resting against each other. “I’m so sorry,” Mary Margaret says eventually. “For...for all of it. For not finding you and not knowing and--oh, he loved you more than anything, Emma.”

Emma isn’t sure there is a word in any language – English or Greek or Egyptian hieroglyphics – to describe whatever noise bubbles out of her, but it might be close to a whimper and it’s so goddamn depressing. 

She is so goddamn depressing. 

They have to get out of the middle of nowhere Maine. 

They’ve still got a kingdom to save. 

“So, let me get this straight,” she mutters. “You two have been sharing the same heart the entire time we’ve been here, but you didn’t remember it? That’s absolutely nuts, you realize that?”  
  
“You may have to reexamine your barometer for nuts, Em,” David says. 

“That’s a fair point.”  
  
“We’ve been talking to Regina about that too,” Mary Margaret admits, eyeing Emma when her mouth drops. “Ok, we really weren’t avoiding you. Or this conversation. We just--”   
  
“Weren’t gunning for it either,” David interrupts. “Also, Mary Margaret is right. He would have done everything and then some for you, your highness. Willingly, even.”   
  
“I was never looking for him to play martyr,” Emma sneers. 

Mary Margaret’s hand is still on her cheek. It must be hurting her arm. “And he wasn’t,” she guarantees, words Emma can’t bring herself to argue. “That’s not what it was, Emma. It was--ok, you want truth? Here’s truth. He shouldn’t have died. He shouldn’t have. Killian didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve that. The whole goddamn world deserved a better ending than anything that we’ve gotten so far, but we have made mistakes. All of us. We’ve been twisted and turned and thrown into a story that wasn’t really ours to begin with, falling into a prophecy that claimed us before we even knew what those words could possibly mean. 

And it’s not fair. It’s the opposite of that. But we have fought and clawed for every bit of happiness we have gotten and Killian Jones loved you Emma Swan. More than anything else. Enough that anything else wasn’t even remotely important when it stacked up against you. He fought the darkness to get back to you. He could feel your magic, Emma. That kind of thing doesn’t happen every day.”

She’s crying again. 

It’s patently stupid. And entirely expected. 

“That doesn’t make it any easier,” Mary Margaret adds, another round of mind reading that Emma appreciates because she seems to have misplaced her ability to communicate. “I’m not sure it ever will.”  
  
“This is not one of your best speeches, M’s,” Emma grumbles. 

Mary Margaret smiles. “Let me finish then. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. And I am sorry to have been even part of the cause of that. But we weren’t avoiding you, Emma. We would never do that. Because we love you too. And it shouldn’t have happened like this, but maybe, eventually, that pain can recede just a bit and you won’t hate the sun quite so much.”  
  
“Gods, how do you do that?”   
  
“Years of experience.”   
  
“I love you too, you know that?”   
  
“I do,” Mary Margaret nods, a quick kiss to the bridge of Emma’s nose. “Ask your last question.”

“Why didn’t we remember who we were?”

“All magic comes with a price,” David answers. “And we didn’t really pay it, did we?”  
  
Emma groans. “Are you fucking kidding me?”   
  
“Regina thinks it makes sense. We didn’t give into the rules of the curse or whatever, found a loophole and then magic was like--”   
  
“--Fuck you guys for doing that?”   
  
“You’re going to have to watch that mouth once we get back to court.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Emma mumbles, another huff of overly dramatic breathing. “Do you think there are still non-magic folk who didn’t get pulled with the curse? Killian said--” She grits her teeth, both Mary Margaret and David tensing at the name and the ease with which she says it. “He said that he’d been trying to get here for years. Both he and Rumplestilskin knew where we were, but I can’t imagine there would be many people in town who’d just have that kind of innate knowledge of other realms.”  
  
David practically beams. “A smart and concerned monarch.”   
  
“I’m going to curse you.”   
  
“We tried that already, didn’t take.”   
  
“Oh my God,” Mary Margaret mumbles, and it will be interesting to see how they fit back into their old lives, this mix of past and present and Emma’s going to bring leggings with her. Fuck court rules. 

Maybe they can just burn down the wing of the castle George was in. 

“Serious answer?” David asks, Emma making a ridiculous noise at the ridiculous question. There are more footsteps coming towards them. “I have no idea,” he admits. “It seems likely and, uh, that’s kind of why we want to get out of here as quickly as possible.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“We don’t want to push though,” Mary Margaret adds quickly, sounding suspiciously like they rehearsed this part. 

Emma hums. “I know you don’t. But I think--I think you might be right anyway. If Regina can get Isaac to not be a dick, then I think we’ll be able to do it right?”  
  
“In theory,” David answers.   
  
“That’s not helpful.”   
  
“That’s what I’ve got right now.”   
  
“Fair,” Emma mumbles, twisting a strand of hair around her fingers and the footsteps sound like they’re rocking back and forth now. Something about waves. Or...whatever. Emma’s too tired to come up with more metaphors. “If that’s anyone I don’t like I’m not going to be held responsible for my actions.”   
  
“Ah, that depends on the semantics of _like_ I guess,” Will calls. Emma nearly falls over. 

He grins when she spins, hand stuffed in his pockets and weight resting on his heels. “You got a second or you going to teleport back to your mythical kingdom, like, right now?”  
  
“I think I can hold off for a couple minutes.”   
  
“Ok, cool.”   
  
He doesn’t actually move though, and it takes a few moments for David and Mary Margaret to realize they’ve been effectively dismissed. “Oh,” Mary Margaret gaps, jerking her arm back to reach for David’s hand. “Right, right, we’ll, um...we were going to get some food at Granny’s later. If you want to--”   
  
Emma before she can keep rambling. “Thanks, M’s.”   
  
“Ok. C’mon, David, I bet Regina’s got more books we can stare at.”   
  
David clicks his tongue, gaze darting between Emma and Will and back to Emma again. She smiles. “Go ahead, your highness, I’m perfectly safe.”

“Yeah, if anything she’ll just totally fuck me up with her magic, so…” Will shrugs, head tilted and expression teasing. Emma laughs. 

That’s weird. 

“Ok,” David agrees. “If you’re not at Granny’s by seven, I’m going to send out something drastic I will think of eventually.”  
  
“You’re the most eloquent person I’ve ever met.”   
  
He kisses her hair. That’s less weird. 

And it’s only a few moments before Mary Margaret and David disappear down the corner, Will taking slow steps towards the dock like he’s a little nervous it’s going to fall apart if he puts too much weight on the soles of his shoes. 

“I’m not going to let you drown if that’s what you’re worried about,” Emma says, working an actual guffaw out of him. She’s claiming that as another victory. 

“I’m not, really.”  
  
“Then…”   
  
“I’m kind of--I don’t know, if I tell you that I’m totally freaking out and having a very hard time believing any of this is real is that going to do irreparable damage to my rep?”   
  
“Only if you keep using the word rep in actual conversation.” He chuckles, fingers wrapping around the back of his neck. There’s something else in his pocket. Emma nods towards the end of the dock. “C’mon, sit, I don’t know how much longer how much I can stay upright.”   
  
“That’s not really sparking my confidence. Princess? God, do I call you princess?”   
  
“Please don’t.”   
  
Will groans, but he does sit down and that seems like a good start. “It’s so weird,” he mumbles. “The whole thing. I mean--I was almost cool with you having magic and Ruby being able to turn into a wolf and even the fucked up shit that happened at my bar.”   
  
“Was that expensive? I could, like, magic you money or something.”   
  
“Is that illegal?”   
  
“Is that your only caveat?” Emma asks, fingers already twisting and she wonders if she can fabricate a check out of mid-air. That’d be impressive. “Because, honestly, we’ve got like the whole treasury of Misthaven to work with here and I’m not entirely sure what the conversion rate is, but I bet we could just decide on that ourselves and--”   
  
“--Emma,” Will interrupts sharply. “That’s not why I’m here. Not really.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No. Although maybe eventually we’ll circle back to the royal treasury.”

Her laugh wobbles out of her. “Deal,” Emma says. “Ok, so if you weren’t here to talk magical economics, what is it?”  
  
“I went through some of Killian’s stuff.”   
  
Emma knocks one of her sandals in the ocean. “Ah, goddamnit!” She waves her hand, far more force than is actually necessary because it only results in a wave cresting over both her and Will’s dangling feet and the water is freezing cold. “Oh my God,” she yelps. “Fuck the entire state of Maine, honestly!”

He throws his whole head back when he laughs.   
  
“Shit, you are the worst princess I have ever seen.”   
  
“Yeah, you are the not the first person who’s told me that, actually,” Emma mumbles. Her sandal lands next to her. 

“Sorry for springing that on you,” Will adds. “That’s--I practiced like sixteen different ways to tell you that I did this on the way over here and even asked Belle for advice, but--”  
  
“--That’s actually really nice.”   
  
“Yeah, well, this whole thing is a festering piece of garbage, so I figured you could use a little bit of nice. He’s really...he’s really dead then?”

The words don’t quite cut _through_ Emma, but they might stab at her and that is even worse. Her nod feels forced. “Yeah,” she says, short and succinct. It doesn’t help. “That was the only way to do it. To make sure the darkness didn’t stay or linger. If--if we hadn’t done that then it would have consumed him eventually. Taken over all the realms.”   
  
“That sounds less than ideal.”   
  
“It’s not great, no.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not your fault. None of it is really anybody’s fault. If anything, it’s...well, it’s me. I mean, we walked right into it. When we were--”  
  
“--In your fairy tale.”   
  
“It wasn’t a fairy tale,” Emma corrects lightly, and her fingers keep drifting up towards the collar of her shirt. There’s still nothing there. “It was our life and I was…oh, damn.” She lets out a shaky breath, tears stinging her eyes and she really thought she’d finished this. Her throat feels very tight. “There were moments here, though. Sometimes he’d say something or he’d look a certain way and I...I knew. It was exactly the same.”   
  
“You know, I’ve known him for years,” Will says, and Emma doesn’t miss that he keeps using present tense. “He hated that I never washed the dishes the same night I used them.”   
  
“Well, that’s gross, that’s why.”   
  
“I’m trying to set up an anecdote here.”   
  
“Right, right,” Emma mutters. “Don’t let me stop you.”   
  
“He folded everything perfectly, it was ridiculous. But he was kind of a dick too. In a nice way, you know. Like I knew he would have beat down for Belle in a second. He loved her. Not like--not like you, I mean--”   
  
“--I get what you’re saying, Scarlet.”   
  
Will nods, shifting so whatever is still stuck in his pocket doesn’t stab the side of his leg. “I’ve known him forever and I’ve never seen anything like that,” he says, voice dropping low with the weight of his emotion. “The way he was around you. It was like...watching the moon or something. Ah, that’s a shit way of explaining it.”   
  
“I’ll take the sentiment of it.”   
  
“Generous of you.” He runs a hand over his face, exhale loud even over the waves and the water and whatever birds are still in the sky. “It was like something switched for him. Like someone turned him back on or got him to full power. It was like a fairy tale.”

Emma whimpers again. God, that’s so lame. “Yeah,” she agrees softly. “I guess it might have been, actually.”

“I know I’m kind of on the outside looking in here and you guys have to go back where you came from, but I just...I thought I’d throw my two cents in for whatever it’s worth.”  
  
“At least a quarter.”   
  
“See,” Will crows. “You’re funny. No wonder he loved you.”

Emma brushes away tears and her smile doesn't settle perfectly on her face. It’s there though. And she gives herself this – this moment and the relative silence, a bit of normal and hint of easy, nothing more than the smell of saltwater to keep her grounded. 

It doesn’t last as long as she hopes. 

She’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

“I’ve never seen him like that,” Will murmurs, twisting again and the scratch of the box on his jeans is far too loud. “So, I know I’m making assumptions, but--” He flips the top of the box open with his thumb, and Emma refuses to be held accountable for _that_ noise either. It’s a ring. Not _her_ ring, but maybe _the_ ring and--

“Oh fucking hell,” Emma breathes, Will chuckling lightly when he bumps his shoulder against hers.

“Were you not expecting that wherever you’re from?”

She shakes her head slowly, not a disagreement, but not entirely an agreement either, because--”He said he wanted to be the one to ask. That, um...well, the pirate was real, you know?” Will widens his eyes, a sarcastic hum low in his throat. Emma presses her fingers into her cheek, scratching at skin and brushing away even more tears. “He did that for me. Or because of me. And I---it was never a normal kingdom, but there were still traditions, courting and balls and--”  
  
Her eyes fall shut, a breath of feeling and could have been. “He would have looked incredibly dashing at an engagement ball.”   
  
Will’s laugh isn’t sarcastic. It’s pure and loud and it warms Emma from the inside out when she reaches for the ring, shaky fingers and cool metal and the light reflects off the stone there. 

And it happens suddenly, but these things always seem to, a flash on the edge of her vision and a surge of power that races up her spine and latches on the back of her brain, a push and a want and she can’t seem to catch her breath. 

Her whole _being_ soars with the rush of it, magic and emotion and most of it is just _love_ because she knows, she’s always known and--

“He had it before then,” Emma whispers, Will’s quiet noise of confusion hardly making it to her ears. She grins. “He had it before. Before the ship and before we--it all happened after that. There was no time after, not...you don’t buy a ring for the person who cursed you, right?”  
  
“Probably not,” Will nods, and Emma knows he’s only agreeing because she’s kind of freaking him out. The muscles in her face ache. 

She ducks down, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”

“I’m going to act like I know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“That’s probably for the best.”

She twists her wrist, leaving her sandals and a stunned Will Scarlet in her wake, a cloud of magic and another bust of heat and Emma’s feet land with practiced ease in the middle of her bedroom. She glances around, certain she’ll find it immediately and it’s not quite that perfect, but it’s pretty damn close. 

Her eyes fall on her bed, a slightly lopsided pillow that wasn’t that way when she crawled out from under the blankets that morning. 

It’s still on the chain. 

Emma doesn’t stumble. She walks, slow and certain and _magical_ , flush with all of it and maybe True Love itself, fingers curling around the ring that has suddenly appeared on her slightly disgusting pillows. It’s heavier than she remembers, lowering her head to let the chain drape over her neck, but the weight only lasts a moment before it seems to settle, like it’s fitting back where it belongs and that’s more sentimental than anything else. 

Emma presses her palm against it, pushing it back against her chest. And, she’s never really sure what happens next, can never explain the tug of the magic or the feel in the very center of her, as if something is just a bit _off kilter_ and she tilts her head at the feel of it, a bit of déjà vu and desperation and she doesn’t use magic that time. 

She runs. 

Barefoot. 

Across the entire goddamn town to a makeshift graveyard and a stone with nothing underneath it, pulse racing and hope flying, as if that’s something that hope is capable of doing and--

“Damn,” Emma breathes, mostly because she is out of breath. And disappointed. At the mess of nothing in front of her. 

There’s a stick in between her toes. 

“What the fuck,” she grumbles, twisting her head and glancing around and still nothing. That’s not right. She’d felt it. Something. Everything. _Him_. It had to be, the ring and the magic and--”Idiot,” Emma sighs, leaning forward to rest her hand on the stone in front of her. 

Someone’s magic’ed his name there. 

As if that makes it better. 

“That’s really not fair,” Emma grumbles, and she’s back to talking to herself. Cyclical, or whatever. 

She lets her head drop, hair falling over her shoulders and every breath is a very specific type of challenge. Her other hand tugs on her ring. “I miss you,” she whispers to nothing and no one. “I thought--ah, it doesn’t matter, I guess. I just--”  
  
Emma doesn’t finish. The light that radiates around her makes sure of that, another burst that she’s certain rattles the entire planet or, at least, her knees, the joints knocking together and nails digging into her palm. 

Her mouth goes dry. 

And she doesn’t dare look. 

Until. 

“Swan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	15. Chapter 15

The world stops. 

It does. Emma is certain. It stops and gives her a moment and, for that, she’ll be endlessly thankful becuase she is not altogether sure how she manages to stay upright when she turns around. There’s still a bit of sun on her neck, but she swears it’s softer now, as if that’s something UV rays are capable of doing, like it’s just nudging at her or making her aware of the quiet warmth lingering in the very center of everything and the few leaves under her right foot crunch slightly under her toes. 

Oh shit, she’s still barefoot. 

That’s absurd. 

Her hair brushes the curve of her shoulder, a soft burst of wind that’s probably magical somehow and Emma knows her eyes don’t widen. That’s also absurd. Her eyes should widen and her breath should rush out of her in a giant, emotional huff, but both of those seem impossible when it feels as if her heart is bursting. 

That, she imagines, takes biological precedent.

He looks the same. And not. There’s a lightness to him that Emma can’t remember seeing in _years_ , an ease to the set of his shoulders and even the ridiculous length of his hair, curling slightly behind an ear that has an actual earring dangling from it, is more...Gods, she can’t come up with the words for it. 

He looks at her. 

And looks. 

And it’s easy and something almost tender and several thousand other adjectives that are positive and wonderful and absolutely impossible. Because there are still those pesky double negatives and her mind is racing, running marathons and sprints until Emma is certain her lungs are actually burning. She doesn’t blink. 

Can’t. _Won’t_. Refuses to chance the possibility that this isn’t as real as it feels. 

Because he keeps looking. Staring, even, wearing the clothes she’d seen him in last – a leather jacket that’s shorter than it ever was in Misthaven, but is impossibly familiar _here_ , slightly dingy because he had to come from somewhere and Emma refuses to even think that there’s anything except perfectly intact fabric in the back. The buttons of his shirt aren’t done all the way, the chain around his neck obvious even when Emma’s gaze refuses to land on anything specific and she imagines the belt around his waist is really more for decorative purposes than anything. 

It’s the same. And not. Again. 

Because there’s the earring and more than a few rings on his right hand, things she’s never seen before and--she might gasp. There’s a hook at the end of his left arm, the limb twisted slightly at his side, like he’s a little nervous of her reaction to _that,_ not his sudden appearance in an inexplicable graveyard and--

Blue. Bright blue. 

One side of his mouth tugs up, when Emma exhales, far too shaky to be even remotely romantic, but her eyes are still the right size and it’s getting more and more difficult to see him. She assumes that has something to do with the tears clouding her vision. 

“Killian?” Emma breathes, hating that it’s a question, but she’s got to be sure and this has to be real and she can’t understand how there is enough oxygen in her lungs to exhale as dramatically as she does. 

Her whole body moves with the force of it, a heave of her chest and shift of her shoulders. The tears resolutely refuse to fall though, and she’s not sure if that’s a victory or just putting off the inevitable, but it takes approximately half a second for her to realize it absolutely, positively does not matter. 

At all. 

She shakes her head, a dismissal of any thought that isn’t explicitly positive and hopeful and then her feet are moving. 

Quickly. Suddenly. 

And so is he. Killian takes a step towards her – part of Emma’s brain quick to notice that his left arm is still at his side, but his right hand reaches out, fluttering fingers like he can’t quite wait to touch her and she’s never seen that expression before. 

On anyone, let alone directed at her 

He stares at her like she can’t possibly be real. She understands the sentiment. 

So, she runs, outstretched arms that tremble a bit because every inch of her feels impossibly heavy and inexplicably light and Emma isn’t altogether surprised when she stumbles towards him. It’s just kind of...well, magical, she supposes. 

The feel of it moves through her as easily as anything, rushing from the humidity-prone strands of hair to toes that are far too dirty. Emma’s stunned she hasn’t burst into the physical embodiment of True Love and she wonders who she’ll have to thank for that later on, but, as it is, she’s more than content for the moment she gets because she can tell the exact moment it’s real. 

She crashes into Killian’s chest, hands falling on his shoulders and gripping a perfectly intact jacket. His fingers wrap around her back, pulling her even closer and he flinches. He does. She knows, eventually, he will deny it, but he flinches and stutters and she hears his breath catch. 

Emma knows why. 

He can feel her magic. 

Still. 

Or always. 

Or whatever. 

And that’s all it takes. 

There’s another half a second, a flitting gaze and sense of longing that’s far deeper than the last four days have allowed, but then it’s gone and he’s there and Emma’s fingers fly into Killian’s hair. It’s easier to kiss him that way. 

She has to press up on her toes, ignoring the stab of a rock under her right foot and, eventually, Emma is going to have to figure out how oxygen works. It can’t possibly be obeying the rules of modern science currently. She tries to breathe Killian in, pressing her nose into his cheek and every inch of him is so, impossibly warm. 

_Impossible, impossible, impossible...perfect_. 

She can’t stop moving her hands. 

They trace over the tops of his shoulders and the back of his neck, carding through strands of hair that the boy she knew once would have balked at. It’s so long. It’s--impossible, impossible, impossible, _real_. Emma tilts her head, trying to deepen the kiss or occupy the same space as him and that works a rather wonderful sound of Killian, a low groan and slight growl and his left arm wraps around her waist. 

She leans into it, arching her back until her hips cant against his. It gets her a slightly different version of the sound and the feel of his hook pressing through the shirt she’s got on, his right hand practically digging its way into her shoulder blades. 

His palm flattens against her back, the ends of her hair brushing over his fingers and Emma is loathe to realize she can’t actually tighten her arms anymore. 

She tries anyway. 

And for as grateful as she was at the world for giving her a chance to understand what was happening before, she’s even more thankful now – because it feels a bit like the world is spinning too quickly, settling back onto an axis that Emma was certain had all but disappeared. She can’t catch her breath, lungs pinched and calves aching and it’s the most comfortable she’s ever been in her entire life. 

She has no idea how long they stay there. She genuinely does not care. Because it could be the rest of their lives and it still wouldn’t be enough, searching lips and searing mouths and that goddamn tongue thing. 

They break apart. They fall back together. Again and again and again. Emma lets her forehead rest on Killian’s, trying, and failing to catch her breath, but oxygen is still doing that thing and as soon as she thinks it’s over it’s not. 

He tilts his head, catching her mouth once more and it’s not what it was. It’s softer and slower, measured movements and most of her weight resting on his chest. It seems her knees are not all that interested in participating in the moment anymore. 

Emma’s fingers move out of Killian’s hair – another noise and that’s good, it’s _good_ , but the world is shifting again and her mind is starting to catch up with what’s just happened and she needs, needs, _needs_ \--

“Oh,” she mutters, another breathless word and her knuckles crack when her fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket. He’s still got his arms wrapped around her. “Wh--oh shit, this is not--” Killian laughs, a soft sound and warm breath that lands mostly on Emma’s nose because his forehead is still resting against hers and they’re rocking again. 

Maybe his knees have given up too. 

Understandable. 

“How are you here?” Emma asks, not sure she wants the answer. She needs it to be real. “This is--Gods.”  
  
He laughs again. She doesn’t appreciate it, but the tears are finally starting to fall and Emma is genuinely impressed she’s managed to keep them contained for so long. 

“I--” Killian lets out another sound, not quite a laugh. It’s far too unsteady to be a laugh, might be a little disbelieving even and Emma’s amazed to realize how quickly she’s understanding all of this. He didn’t expect to be here either. 

That would explain the look. 

“How?” she presses. Her fingers are going to get stuck like this. 

“That woman.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Swan, love you’ve got--” They dissolve into kisses again, soft presses and a quick nip of his teeth on her lower lip, tugging lightly until Emma makes...some kind of noise. It’s not particularly dignified, but her fingers are still stiff and whatever the sound is, it makes Killian’s eyes flash. So, whatever. “That woman,” he repeats. “The one in the field. The not-witch, witch. She was--we were right, love.”  
  
Emma shakes her head slowly, brows pulled low and there’s a scar on his cheek that she’s very curious about. That wasn’t there at home. Gods, she wants to know every single thing that’s happened to him. 

She’s never going to let go of his jacket. 

That’s only kind of possessive. 

“How?”  
  
“She wasn’t human,” Killian answers. “She’s--it was Persephone.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Killian nods, fingers finding their way back into her hair and Emma knows, reasonably, they are not exuding heat. He doesn’t have magic anymore, can’t possibly be _pulsing_ with some kind of power, but it doesn’t seem to matter. She’s positive she can feel how alive he is, the warmth of that hanging in the air around them and--”Aye,” he grins. “She--she must have sent me back, said I deserved it and--” 

Emma doesn’t really let him finish. It’s also a little possessive, but, by her admittedly shaky count, they haven’t kissed in something like ten seconds now and that’s unacceptable. They nearly fall over, kisses peppered to his cheek and the side of his mouth, Emma’s hands pulling his face closer so she can move across as much skin as possible. 

His smile brands itself on her memory. 

And possibly her soul, but that seems a little melodramatic even when the apparent Underworld is involved. 

“I don’t--” Emma mumbles, leaning back and that rock is becoming a bit of an issue. Her feet fall back on the ground, a soft thump that’s difficult to hear over that sound. 

Oh, it’s her. 

She’s laughing too. 

Huh. 

That’s unexpected. And wonderful. She does it again, the noise bubbling out of her with ease and something decidedly magical, a quick shake of her head that turns into an even bigger smile and slightly aching face muscles. They’re out of practice. 

Also melodramatic. 

“I mean,” Emma continues, Killian’s hand moving again. The metal of his hook finds its way under the hem of her shirt, cool metal on seemingly scalding and far-too-emotional skin and--"What? I just...what?”

She seriously cannot stop kissing him. She starts again, more butterfly kisses to the curve of his jaw and cheekbones that she genuinely found offensive when she was a teenager, leaning into the metal pressed against her back only to blink and hope. 

He’s still there. 

Staring at her. Like she’s the goddamn sun. 

“Persephone,” Killian says again, a note of pleased indulgence in his voice. “You know--mistress of the Underworld, definitely that woman we met in the field.”  
Emma blinks. 

He laughs. It’s...every adjective she can think of. It’s loud and joyful and directed straight at her, because of her, which is just--well, it’s only a little overwhelming, but that’s been the theme of the last few days and her hands have minds of their own. 

The scruff on his jaw scratches at her palms when she rests them on either side of his face again, a sudden brush of his lips over the back of her wrist. 

“Gods, I can feel that,” Killian whispers, sounding like he’s almost talking to himself and the wonder in _those_ words will be Emma’s excuse for anything she does after that. “She really wasn’t lying, Swan. She does enjoy a good love story and, oh--” He twists his eyebrows, all confident familiarity and certainty and _alive_. “We are the very best.”

“But I--”  
  
“--No, no, don’t do that,” Killian cuts in quickly. “You did what you had to and I--she sent me back, love. Where I belonged.”  
  
Emma blinks again. It’s a silly reaction, but she has to keep double checking and it takes a few moments for that very specific sentence to process. “Belonged?” she echoes, Killian’s smile as wide as she’s ever seen it. 

“True love, Swan. The whole thing. It’s--she told us how destroy the darkness and you did. It just...took us some time to get it right.” Emma scoffs, but the smile only gets more pronounced and she genuinely cannot cope with the color of his eyes. She’s going to choke him if she holds onto his jacket any tighter. “And I was--well, it took a few days for her to find me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re repeating yourself, darling.”  
  
“Oh my God.”

Killian laughs again – free and easy and he doesn’t look any older than the last time she _really_ saw him. There are still crinkles by his eyes when he smiles, dimples that Emma used to think about for weeks when he’d be gone and she wonders if he can bring this jacket back with him to Misthaven.

Gods, they get to go back to Misthaven. 

Together. 

“I was--” Killian starts, the smile wavering for a moment. “It’s an interesting place, the Underworld. Different sections and far too many people, quite chaotic honestly. It’s a wonder they get anything done. And I was there for,” he shrugs, “I don’t know--”  
  
“--Four days,” Emma supplies. 

“What?”  
  
“Look who’s repeating who now.”

“Four days?”  
  
Emma nods, a bit of tension in the movement. “Yeah, it was--” They will, eventually, finish their sentences, she’s sure. As it is, there are tears on her cheeks and a thumb brushing away the tears, smile turning soft and understanding and--  
  
“Gods, I missed you,” Killian says, and Emma doesn’t think he’s talking about the Underworld. “More than--” He takes a quivering breath, his own gaze turning a little glossy when his teeth find his lower lip and the hand that’s pressed against Emma’s cheek stays exactly where it is. She’s glad. For several thousand things, but especially that. 

“I knew,” Emma whispers. “I knew, even when I didn’t know.”  
  
“That's a contradiction, love.”

“The most difficult man in all the realms. Far too confident in his own sense of humor.”  
  
Killian hums, dropping his head against hers again. “Aye, but it does usually end with you laughing and I do rather adore that sound. Are you not wearing shoes?”  
  
“I kind of...ran here?”  
  
“Did you just?”  
  
“Ok, you don’t get to brag about that,” Emma grumbles, more tears and maybe after she figures out how oxygen works she’ll look up how many muscles are in the, average human face. She assumes Belle will know. 

He twists his eyebrows again, arches that defy gravity and the tip of his tongue presses into the corner of his mouth. Just like Emma imagined. 

It’s nice to not have to do that anymore. 

“Where was I in the story?”  
  
“Doing a God awful job of telling it in chronological order.”  
  
Killian nods, another round of kissing and rocking and Emma can’t possibly keep arching her back this way. She’s going to keep trying. “Of course, of course, love,” he chuckles. “Right, well, it’s fairly simple. I am---is enthralled a good word?”  
  
“Depends on the context, I suppose.”  
  
“By you, consistently.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
It’s a rather lackluster response, but Emma can only be expected to deal with so much in such a short period of time and the tongue thing is really the last straw. Metaphorically. In a way where the last straw is actually the best thing in the world and Killian’s eyes widen slightly when he notices the ring that’s fallen over the front of her shirt. 

He opens his mouth, the questions sitting on the tip of his tongue almost audible even before he actually voices him, but Emma answers before he gets the chance. 

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve been trying to find it for days, ever since we got back and--oh fuck, do you think that was God-ordained too? I...it wasn’t here before, but it must have--”  
  
“--I’ve got a theory about that.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
Killian makes a ridiculous noise, and Emma isn’t sure how either one of them is still standing anymore. Sheer force of will, probably. “Aye, I think...well, I remembered when I touched the sword, right? Magic is like that sometimes. Conduits that could help spark memories or remember moments and, well, at the risk of sounding incredibly self important…”  
  
“You think I had to give up my ring so I wouldn’t remember you? As part of a curse I didn’t want to cast?”  
  
“All magic comes with a price, love.”  
  
“That is absolute bullshit.”

“Yes, it is,” Killian agrees. “And incidentally I do very much appreciate the phrase my ring.”  
  
“Isn’t it?”  
  
“With my whole heart, love.”

Emma exhales. “That didn’t really make much sense either, you know.”  
  
“Par for the course, don’t you think?”  
  
She doesn’t exhale that time. She giggles instead, more sounds she doesn’t have much control over, but her whole _being_ sparks at Killian’s phrasing, the mix of old and new and hers and not and _every single time_ coming together in a mess of limbs and lips and clichés from the Land Without Magic. 

“You can’t laugh at that, love,” he murmurs, but his own voice shakes slightly as well and they really need to get out of this graveyard. He needs to get better at telling a coherent story. “I was in this realm just as long as you were, it only serves that I’d pick up some of the colloquialisms.”  
  
“Good word.”  
  
“Ah, it’s the librarian in me, I’d assume.”  
  
“I liked that.”  
  
“I am incredibly aware of that and plan to bring it up as often as possible.”

“Yeah?”  
  
“Indefinitely, Swan.”

That’s another exhale – giving in to the hope that’s been festering in the pit of her stomach since she heard the sound of her own name and that’s a terrible word for it, but Emma’s been so _bad_ at that for so long and he came back. To her. 

Every single time. 

“You were in the Underworld,” she whispers, Killian trailing his mouth against the jut of her jaw and just under her ear and he hadn’t done that before. At least not in this realm. But another realm. And another life. And--”  
  
“Oh that’s it,” he sighs, warm breath against her skin and Emma can’t feel the goosebumps, but she knows they’re there. “When I was trying to get here, to find you, that’s...it wasn’t good, but sometimes I’d be able to remember that. That sound. Like you were the one stunned that I--as if being in love with you was some kind of--”  
  
“--The best?” Emma finishes.

“I’m not sure if that makes sense at the end of that particular sentence, love.”  
  
“Are you going to criticize my sentence structure, Lieutenant?”  
  
His whole expression changes. His eyes widen and his breath rushes out of him, a spark in his gaze that makes Emma’s magic positively roar. “Sometimes I’d catch you, love,” Killian continues, “staring. As if you couldn’t believe what you were looking at and it--it changed everything. From the very start. It made it all make sense and worth something and I couldn’t...when I’d do something, when I’d give in or want to give up I’d...I’d remember that sound, the way your teeth catch your lip and that little pinch between your brows.”

“Hmmm?”  
  
“Oh aye, it happens every time. You pull your brows down and there’s this little pinch in between them. When we were younger, before the pirates and the prophecy and all of it, I--I used to imagine that I’d be able to smooth it out, settle in between everything and--” He flashes her a grin, the tips of his ears going slightly pink and Emma does, in fact, bite her lower lip. “It would bring me back,” Killian adds, “Every single time.”

She’s crying again. She might not have ever stopped. 

It’s going to take so long to get the dirt from between her toes. 

“And I thought of that when I was the Underworld. The feel of you and the sound and your feet are always freezing.” Emma lets out a watery laugh, pulling her lips back so she resists the urge to add her own sentimental thoughts. “There were people everywhere. Good people and bad people and--what happened to Rumplestilskin?”  
  
“Killian!”

“That’s a reasonable question.”  
  
“I don’t care,” Emma shouts, and whatever expression he makes is wholly unfair. “Four days! I--it was Persephone? The whole time?”  
  
He nods, cheek brushing against a palm Emma didn’t realize she’d moved back to his face. “Said it was understandable people thought she was a witch, but that she wanted to help. It was an overstep, but she’d--well, she’d just gotten back to this plane and--”  
  
“--Holy shit.”  
  
“You are a picture of eloquence, princess.”

“I’m not wearing any shoes, so I can’t kick you.”  
  
“Kick, kiss, all the same thing, aye?”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, but she’s also being impossibly charmed by the whole thing and he totally knows it. He’s counting on it. “How?” she asks softly, leaning back against his hook and his hand and his fingers are warm when they brush against her waist. 

“The Underworld seems to be a lot of waiting,” Killian explains. “A massive...it’s not really a beach, but it’s--well, maybe that was just me. I woke up and there was sand under my shoes and salt in my nose and boats everywhere.”  
  
“And what did they do?”  
  
“Took you.”  
  
“To?”  
  
“That’s the question isn’t it,” he mutters, twisting his hand into hers like he’s trying to ground himself. Or remind himself. Emma does her best to smile encouragingly. “You sit and you wait and then someone says to get on a specific boat and it ferries you on. I never got on the boat. I waited. Impatiently, but, uh...I kept thinking of you, love. And that sometimes, even when we were cursed--”  
  
“--I knew,” Emma finishes, and maybe they’re both horrible at storytelling. “I...the whole time I was in Storybrooke. Some of the memories leaked through. Things that happened in George’s castle, just..kind of altered and I--I could remember you.” The last few words aren’t more than a whisper and a breath, some more hope of the festering variety. “I remembered being on the docks and no one else came and I--you promised it would be alright.”

There are tears on his cheeks. 

“Just took us awhile to get to that point,” Killian says. “She said that’s why she showed up in the first place. She’s not, well, Persephone isn’t a seeress, but she may know a few and I think...she asked me didn’t she?”  
  
“About?”  
  
“If I was willing to do what I had to in order to protect you.”  
  
Emma’s jaw drops. “Are you fucking kidding me? That meant dying? Is that a joke?”  
  
“I don’t believe so, no.”  
  
She can’t come up with enough curses to curse as loudly as she wants. And that’s not the romance Emma is hoping to linger in for, at least, the next four days, but she’s tired of fate and preordained and she wants to sleep. 

For, at least, the next four days. 

“I kept waiting,” Killian continues, clearly sensing Emma’s frustration and the small burst of magic moving through every one of her veins. “Sat on that beach and hoped I’d done enough to redeem myself and if I had, that I wouldn’t forget you and then...suddenly there were footsteps and she offered me her hand. I don’t know where we walked, but it wasn’t...it wasn’t where I’d been. It was easier to breathe, calmer, almost, like we’d stepped away from the chaos and the noise and she thanked me for what we’d done.”  
  
Emma narrows her eyes. Killian kisses the pinch between her brows. “We’d done, Swan,” he repeats. “It was always us, huh?”  
  
“That’s sentimental,” Emma accuses, but there’s not enough in her voice to make it sound like anything except happiness and longing and how much she’d missed him right back. 

“Aye, I imagine you’ll have to deal with that from now on, actually.”  
  
“A hardship.”  
  
He hums and she can feel his smile when he drags his mouth against the side of her neck, pieces of hair brushing against her jaw and cheek. His hand reaches up to wrap around her ring. “Anyway,” Killian says, “Persephone seemed to believe that we’d done the world a rather important service and she was very quick to tell me that her husband--”  
  
“--Are we actually talking about Hades here?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
“Right, right,” Emma nods. “Ok, well--yeah, ok, then.”

Killian laughs, the feel of it moving under her skin. In a way that isn’t gross. But great. And better than that. Ordained by several Gods. “He was apparently rather interested in our rather pointed opinions regarding Zeus.”  
  
“What?” Emma balks, and she’s got to come up with another word. She’s got to sit down. 

“Oh yes, a bit starved for compliments is Hades. And decidedly overworked. He appreciated that we weren’t worshiping at the altar of Zeus--”  
  
“--When would we have had the time to worship anything?”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
She laughs. Giggles. Makes a number of increasingly ridiculous sounds. If only so Killian’s eyes will widen slightly and his mouth will quirk up “You were the one who wanted to hear the story, love,” Killian points out. “I think we left a rather lasting impression on a number of mythical beings and, uh--well, Persephone and I kept walking and it got so bright. Like we were walking onto the sun.”  
  
“That probably would have been painful.”

He scoffs, but it’s still as indulgent as ever and his hand has moved back to skin, tracing patterns and taking care to touch as much of her as possible. “Am I allowed to make fun of your own attempts at humor?”  
  
“That’s scientific fact.”  
  
“You’re making it difficult to tell the story.”

“By your leave, Lieutenant.”  
  
He kisses her. And, really, at this point, _that_ isn’t surprising, but Emma was far too confident in her entirely out of place jokes and the force with which Killian’s mouth lands on her is enough to alter the entire atmosphere of the Earth.

She assumes. 

Emma sighs into his mouth, half a groan and an entire acquiesce and her eyes flutter shut as soon as his tongue brushes across her lips. She opens against him, not nearly enough friction, but she’s already barefoot and there’s got to be some kind of limit on the number of absurdities two people with True Love and a variety of supportive Gods can deal with. 

“I could almost hear you,” Killian says, not bothering to pull away and that’s probably for the best because Emma isn’t sure what she’d do if he did. “When we kept walking. I--did you go to the dock? Here, I mean?”

Emma doesn’t open her eyes. “That’s all I’ve done.”  
  
“Oh, Swan.”  
  
“No, no, that’s not--ok, well, it’s exactly that, but I...I thought--”  
  
“It’s ok, love.”  
  
“It’s not,” Emma argues, hating that she’s doing anything remotely resembling that. “It wasn’t ok. I shouldn’t have--” Her breath hitches and her sniffle sounds impossibly loud, mouth going dry when she tries to swallow back the force of her own feelings. “I shouldn’t have done it,” she whispers. “Before. I--I’m so happy you’re here.”  
  
And it’s not enough. Not by a long short. Or a landslide. Or any idiom she could possibly come up with. It probably won’t ever be. 

But the mistress of the Underworld, presumably, brought Killian back to her and Emma can’t argue. No matter how selfish it may be. 

She wants it. Desperately. For the rest of...forever. 

And then some. 

“I don’t care,” she whispers. “I don’t care how you’re here or who sent you. I’m just glad you’re here.”

She pulls herself against him, tear-stained cheek pressed into the curve of his neck. Her hands move around him, a sure grip that can’t possibly be comfortable, but Killian doesn’t protest. He holds her. 

Tightly. 

Emma’s dimly aware that she lifts her head, not entirely in control of her own movements, but she’s fairly confident she’s still trying to kiss his jaw and just under his eye, feeling the moisture on his skin and she can barely hear him mumbling against her. She doesn’t pick up most of the words, but they seem to settle into her consciousness anyway, quiet promises and guarantees, wholly romantic and incredibly sentimental and--

“You’re really here,” Killian breathes, a hint of disbelief that makes Emma’s whole body ache. “Gods, I’m so happy you’re alright.”

She tightens her hold, chin undoubtedly digging into his shoulder. He doesn’t complain. He moves closer, somehow finding a few inches that they hadn’t been occupying and Emma doesn’t try to kiss him again. 

And, in the grand scheme, it’s almost ironic. 

But, in the moment, it makes more sense than anything. She can’t bring herself to move again, can’t imagine a scenario where peeling herself away from the arms wrapped around her middle would be anything except the single most ridiculous thing she could possibly do, so Emma, simply, stands there, letting the moment cover both of them with a hint of sunlight and a bit of magic and he came back. 

Killian doesn’t let go. 

And she assumes time passes, as time is usually apt to do, but neither one of them make a move to let go of the other. They stand and Emma’s feet continue to dig into the dirt, the feel of her ring pressing into her chest an almost pleasant pain. 

“If I don’t sit down I may fall over.”

Emma’s laugh flies out of her, body shaking in Killian’s arms and she knows she can’t actually feels his smile, but it’s there. She’s positive. He kisses her temple. “I can---”  
  
“No, no,” he mutters quickly, tugging her back towards a tree and he hardly blinks at her undoubtedly incredulous expression. “Just a few minutes, love,” Killian says. He’s already bending his knees, left arm held out invitingly and Emma doesn’t really think. 

There’s not much of a choice, anyway. 

“I’m sure there’s a catastrophe to deal with,” Killian continues, Emma curling into his side and he makes a contented noise in the back of his throat as soon as her arm moves across his stomach. He doesn’t object to the dirt on his jeans when she slings her legs over his as well. “But,” he adds, “I’m going to be selfish for just a bit longer.”  
  
“The rest of the monarchy is taking care of it anyway.”  
  
“Ah, but you’re the only monarch I’m interested, Swan.”

“Flatterer.”  
  
Killian nods. “Well you’re rather easy inspiration, huh?”  
  
“Your jeans are ridiculous.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
She hadn’t meant to say those words, but Emma’s drifting dangerously close to exhaustion and something that she’s only a little concerned is absolute _joy_ , so the words seem to just tumble out of her and she’s not the greatest at compliments. “Your jeans,” Emma repeats, clicking her tongue when Killian’s chest shakes under her head. “Seriously. Where did you find jeans that were so tight?”  
  
“Are you not appreciative of my wardrobe in this realm?”  
  
“Ok, well, that’s the most ridiculous sentence--”  
  
“--That’s the most ridiculous sentence?” Killian challenges.

“Seriously have you seen your jeans? They’re so distracting.”  
  
“I think you just admitted to being distracted by my pants. That’s a compliment, you know.”

“Weird.”  
  
“Aye, super weird.”  
  
Emma buries her face in his collarbone, kissing exactly where her lips land because some things are different and some are the same, but there’s just enough skin above a row of unbuttoned buttons that she can feel the way he shivers slightly at her touch. Her magic jumps. And twists. 

And does several cartwheels. 

“I love you,” she whispers, more sentiment and unplanned words that she probably should have led with. 

Killian stills. She can feel the hook on her back again. “I love you, Swan.”

They must fall asleep. Emma doesn’t remember closing her eyes, but she assumes it was inevitable, a comfort that seems to drape itself over her, like a blanket and a memory and a few more minutes of decidedly selfish behavior, but then there are words pressed against her hair and the flutter of wings a few inches away from her nose. 

“What the--” Emma grumbles, blinking awake as Killian tries to move them back up. Her muscles are twisted, pins and needles in her legs and only one arm that seems to have twisted its way under Killian’s back and she’s not sure whose joints crack more. “Ah, shit, that’s not encouraging is it?”  
  
“Not exactly sprightly, are we?”  
  
“Ok, that was definitely your back.”  
  
“Ah, but you fell asleep first, Swan, so, all things considered--”  
  
He doesn’t finish. The bird hanging in the air in front of them snaps its beak instead, an obvious sense of impatience and frustration. “Oh, damn,” Emma sighs, understanding what’s going on. “God, do you think David can control the birds now too?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Ah, we didn’t get to that part, did we?” Killian widens his eyes, waving his hand at the bird when it starts making more noise. Emma grimaces. “It’s a very long story,” she says, “but it wasn't Regina. The curse, I mean. Basically David and Mary Margaret share a heart and--”  
  
“--What?!”  
  
The bird sounds like it’s yelping or trying to talk and Emma rolls her whole head. “Ok, ok, ok,” she says quickly. “We heard you You can tell whichever one of them sent you that I’ll--I lost track of time and I’ll be at Granny’s in a couple of minutes, ok?”  
  
There’s no response. Emma can’t speak to birds. And Killian is still staring at her, something between incredulous and adoring and it makes her whole _self_ threaten to combust, lips pressed together and a fluttering of her magic. 

“That’s still very distracting, you know,” he mutters. Emma scrunches her nose.  
  
“Good?”  
  
“I think I heard something about the best before. What did the bloody bird want? He have a name that he wanted to share?”  
  
“I think he was annoyed it took us so long to realize he was here. And, uh--well, David and Mary Margaret staged some kind of intervention today because I’ve been--” Emma huffs, hating the tears that sting her vision again. Killian smiles. 

“I’m not going anywhere, love.”  
  
Her magic makes the leaves above them shake. “Promise?”

“There’s no getting rid of me now.”

They don’t have time for more kisses, but...Emma does not care. He doesn’t seem to either. “I was supposed to meet them at Granny’s because Regina was going to intimidate Isaac into agreeing to write us home. David said if I wasn’t there by seven he would do something drastic.”

“And that was the attack by birds?”  
  
“Just one bird.”

Killian scoffs, but he’s still smiling when he stands up and Emma’s fingers lace through his as soon as he offers her his hand. “Let’s go, love.”

They don’t rush. They probably should – quicker steps and a less leisurely path, but Emma’s legs resolutely refuse to give into the demands of her neurons or however her brain works and she’s far too interested in watching every single thing that happens to Killian’s face while they walk up Main Street. 

He’s been in this realm as long as she has, so Emma knows he’s not entirely unacquainted with the way of things, but his eyes keep widening and his brows keep jumping and she’d be willing to bet a variety of things that he doesn’t realize his thumb continues to trace the same pattern on the back of her wrist with every one of those slow, measured steps they take. 

“You’re staring, love,” he mumbles, less than a block away from Granny’s and Emma doesn’t have to look up to hear the smile in his voice. Also because she is, in fact, staring. 

“Oh shut up.”  
  
“Eloquent.”  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
“I know you are,” Killian says, and Emma is very close to objecting to him letting go of her hand, but then his arm finds its way around her shoulders and her cheek is pressed against leather and she’s already trying to come up with several plausible excuses for them blowing off this entire meeting. 

That proves almost impossible, however, when there are people waiting for them outside of Granny’s. 

“Emma, seriously where the hell have you been? David is--” Will starts, jumping up out of the chair and whatever look lands on his face would probably be funny in any other situation. It’s still almost kind of funny in this situation. Emma assumes that’s because she’s exhausted. 

Will’s shoulders drop, air rushing out of him in a huff of disbelief and he kind of looks like a fish. A fact Killian is very quick to point out. 

“You look ridiculous.”  
  
Will makes an even more strangled noise. “Are you fucking kidding me?”  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“You died, asshole!”  
  
Killian hums, brushing his lips over Emma’s hair and she doesn’t want to bet about _that_ , but she’s fairly certain he’s doing it to remember he isn’t, in fact, dead. Will sighs, running a hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Am I hallucinating this?” he demands. “Because that’s honestly garbage if I am.”  
  
“You have a lot of daydreams about me, Scarlet?” Killian quips, the soft shake of his chest making Emma’s lips quirk up despite the obvious emotion on Will’s face. 

And the chair flying towards them. 

Will has thrown a patio chair at them. 

Granny will be pissed. 

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles, waving her free hand so they’re not inadvertently injured. The chair freezes in mid-air, dropping back onto the ground with a soft thump and matching sounds of _impressed_ from both of the men in front of her. 

“That was good, Swan,” Killian says, ignoring Will’s growl of frustration and she knew it was only a matter of time. The door to the diner swings open, footsteps that are far faster than anything they’d managed on their walk from the graveyard and Ruby’s _holy fuck_ sounds incredibly loud.

“No way,” she adds, rushing down the steps with Belle half an inch behind her and Emma is not entirely ready for what happens next. 

Belle punches Killian. Hard. If the rather loud grunt of pain he lets out is any indication. 

“Are you kidding me?” she screeches, limbs flailing and it takes a moment for Will to corral both of her arms. “Is this some magic garbage?”  
  
“You and Scarlet need to expand your vocabulary,” Killian mutters. “He called it garbage too.”  
  
“That’s love, dick,” Will growls, and Emma may laugh. Mary Margaret does, at least. She’s also crying though. And Regina’s jaw is never going to recover. 

She’s got a fireball in her hand. 

“Aye, that’s kind of the crux of all of this, isn’t it?” Killian asks, a retreat back to _normal_ that isn’t quite that anymore and Belle tries to kick him again. 

“Regina were you going to fireball us?” Emma asks pointedly. “I thought we decided there wasn’t an imminent threat.”  
  
“There’s not,” Regina says, but it doesn’t sound altogether honest and Emma widens her eyes in unspoken question. “I mean--just...that magic was…”  
  
“True Love’ish?” Killian asks. 

Belle makes a noise in the back of her throat. Mary Margaret sniffles. “Emma,” Belle snaps. “Can we throw a chair again?”  
  
“I mean, I’d really rather you didn’t.”  
  
Belle sighs, any sense of anger gone as quickly as it arrived. There are definitely tears in her eyes. “True Love, huh?”  
  
“Persephone was involved, even.”  
  
“Oh shit, was there actually a dog?”  
  
“Incredibly misunderstood,” Killian murmurs, and Emma can hear that smile as well. He kisses her hair again. 

And that happens quickly too – both Belle and Will moving suddenly and immediately, a mess of limbs and words, tight grips and emotional noises and Emma sees the box change hands, tugging her lips behind her teeth when Killian’s jaw clenches. 

“Ok, wait, wait, so Killian’s not dead?” David asks, several people making several different sounds at _that_ and Ruby muttering something under her breath that sounds a hell of a lot like _obviously_. “And that--”  
  
“--That means we’ve got more than enough magic to get back,” Regina finishes. 

“Wait, what?” Emma snaps. 

“Did you miss the True Love part of your True Love?”  
  
“Alright,” Killian warns, but Regina does not look the least bit threatened and Emma has no idea where they’ve been keeping Isaac. She’s been very bad at actively participating in...life. 

She hopes no one mentions that to Killian.  
  
Mary Margaret might, honestly. 

“Is there a plan here, your majesty?” Killian continues, Regina’s lips twitching at the title that isn’t quite an endearment. “Or are you just going to do your best to continue to intimidate us with your magic show?”  
  
David lets out a low whistle, whatever blooming in the center of Emma’s chest feeling a bit like misplaced pride. And magic. Killian can’t seem to stop kissing her hair. 

“Oh, I have not missed that at all,” Regina says, but she can’t seem to actually get any venom in her voice. “Do you still have magic or--”  
  
Killian shakes his head slowly, the feeling dissipating from Emma’s chest almost immediately. “Huh,” Regina muses. “That’s interesting. But there’s still True Love. Well, something about a gift horse, I’m sure.”  
  
“What the hell does that mean?” Ruby asks. She’s rocking back and forth, like she’s not sure where she’s supposed to stand, but her eyes keep darting towards Emma, more silent questions and hopeful glances. 

Emma nods. “Good, even.”  
  
Mary Margaret may actually jump at that. 

“Did she tell you she was a total and complete disaster?” Ruby mutters, half a smile and Regina groaning in the background because this is not going according to plan and the tips of Killian’s ears are red again. 

Another head shake. 

And Emma’s not entirely surprised it was actually Ruby to say something. 

“We didn’t get that far, really.”  
  
“Right, right,” Ruby nods. “Makes sense. Good to know all that déjà vu we were feeling didn’t mean we were actually insane, huh?”  
  
“Something like that, for sure.”  
  
“You going to keep talking like a modern man of the world, pirate, or you think it’ll just kind of...revert back eventually?”  
  
“Swan, make a quip about Lady Lucas’ humor as well,” Killian says, drawing a wide grin out of Ruby and Mary Margaret is sitting on the steps now, brushing away tears with her head resting against the side of David’s leg. 

Regina keeps rolling her eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re both hysterical,” Emma says. “Regina, will it work? Can we get home?”  
  
There’s a soft murmur of _something_ at Emma’s use of that particular word, Killian’s breath noticeably hitching and fluttering the sides of her hair. Emma resists the urge to tug on her ring. “Aw, that’s nice, Em,” Ruby breathes, perched on the arm of the chair Will had collapsed back into at some point. 

Emma ignores her. “Regina, is it possible? This Isaac guy isn’t going to be a dick?”  
  
“Oh, he’s absolutely going to be a dick,” Regina guarantees. “But that’s easily remedied.”  
  
“Let’s not have this heart conversation again,” David grumbles. “He’s still got Mary Margaret’s blood. We’ve got the spark of magic and all that True Love and--you know, we’re glad you’re not dead, Killian. Emma was seriously a mess.”  
  
“I’m also very glad I’m not dead,” Killian says, pointedly brushing over the _mess_ and Emma will have to thank him for that eventually. 

Maybe later. 

She’s not sure where they’ll go later. 

She’s started hoping again. It is, actually, kind of nice. 

“Isaac still has my blood,” Mary Margaret says, a rehash that probably isn’t necessary but is helpful after the day they’ve all had. “Because, well--I cast the curse, so…” She shrugs, a repentant smile directed Killian’s direction. His fingers tighten around Emma’s shoulder. “Anyway,” she continues, “as far as Regina has been able to get out of him, he’s more than willing to write us back to Misthaven as long as--”  
  
“--As long as?”  
  
“We don’t immediately kill him when we get back,” Regina finishes. 

Killian’s already shaking his head. So is David. And Emma almost expected both of those reactions. “No,” Killian says sharply. “I’m not guaranteeing the cretin anything except maybe a few prolonged hours to beg for forgiveness.”  
  
“I mean, I hate to say he’s got a point, but…” David adds, Ruby and Will both humming in agreement. That second one is a bit more surprising. 

They may have to talk about that later too. 

“It’d be an interesting power to have,” Regina muses, dropping next to Mary Margaret and they’re going to run out of space on the steps. Emma’s legs are starting to wobble again. 

Killian notices. Figures. It’s probably her magic. Or, like...True Love. Gods, they really need to get off Granny’s front lawn. “Just keep breathing, love,” he whispers, twisting her slightly so most of her weight is resting on his side, arms wrapped around his middle and her fingers drifting towards the curve of metal at the end of his arm. 

He tenses at that. 

“Pot and kettle or whatever,” she mutters. 

“Are we only going to talk in clichés now?” Ruby asks, and there’s probably a wolf explanation for her hearing. And the shape of her eyebrows. "Or is that a you guys thing?”  
  
“Probably True Love, huh?” Will chuckles. 

Killian clicks his teeth. “You really drove up here?”  
  
“Is that surprising? Also your--God, girlfriend is kind of a lame title all things considered isn’t it?”  
  
“I don’t mind girlfriend,” Emma promises. Killian exhales softly, any hint of lingering tension disappearing as soon as her fingers find their way around the hook. The metal is cool in her grip, solid and not exactly soft, but smooth and there’s probably several pointed metaphors and equally sentimental clichés there, but she’s mostly just determined to _hold onto him_ and that’s enough for now. 

Will grins. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll see about that. But, uh...yeah, we drove up here and Emma seems very intent on gifting me with most of the Misthaven royal treasury.”  
  
Regina appears to choke on air. 

“Ok, that’s not what I said at all,” Emma argues. Will winks at her.  
  
“That’s what I heard. We can discuss specifics tomorrow, right?”  
  
“Is that the plan?”  
  
“We’d like it to be,” Regina says, voice going almost understanding and it’s only a little weird to see her chin resting on her knees. “I know you’ve been thinking about this and--well, we didn’t want to rush you, but now the pirate is--”  
  
“--Bloody hell,” Killian grumbles. Emma kisses exactly where her lips land. On top of his jacket.

“Don’t you want to go home?”

Emma considers those words in that very specific order, how the sentence fits into her and settles next to the magic in her veins, twisting around the fingers that are still clutching Killian’s hook like he’s going to disappear if she doesn’t dislocate all her knuckles. She nods. “Yeah,” Emma says. “I--I would. Thanks for waiting.”  
  
Regina smiles. “Tomorrow. We’ll talk to Isaac, come up with--”  
  
“--Game plan,” Ruby shouts. “That’s a good cliché, right? Thoughts, Jones?”  
  
“Top tier clichés, Lady Lucas.”  
  
Ruby preens. Honestly. And Mary Margaret is still crying, but there’s a distinct note of happiness in every sniffle, head leaning back against David’s knees now with Regina resting against her side and Belle, somehow, balanced on Will’s left thigh.  
  
It’s nice. It’s good. It’s decidedly hopeful and--

“You want to go home?” Emma asks, tilting her head up if only to see what Killian’s mouth does at that and she’s not disappointed. It quirks, gaze drifting somewhere close to loving and he nods, exactly, once. 

“If we don’t see you by two in the afternoon, we’ll send a whole flock of birds,” David calls at them, but they’re already walking back towards Main Street, Emma’s middle finger stuck in the air. And they move a little quicker that time, surer footfalls and hands laced together and Emma’s door is still unlocked. 

She stares at it. Her back doesn’t slam into it, there’s no searing kisses or hands roaming under clothes. There’s just stiff knees and butterflies in her stomach that are wholly misplaced because this is them and collective pronouns and--

Killian twists the handle. 

“Your highness,” he murmurs, swinging the door open with half a smirk and one perfectly arched eyebrow. Emma exhales.  
  
It almost sounds like a laugh. 

“It’s really a mess,” she warns, but he’s already shaking his head, stepping over the threshold with practiced ease. Like he should have been doing that from the start. 

“You have blankets?” Emma nods. “And presumably you?”  
  
“Me?”  
  
“As in you--” Killian swallows, nerves settling on his face and maybe they’re a collective mess. Despite the reunion. And the kisses. And she needs to apologize. For everything she did and didn’t do and her hand finds its way back to his cheek like there are magnets involved. Or, like, True Love, whatever. “As in you’re not planning on going anywhere.”

Emma’s heart explodes. It’s almost nice. “No,” she shakes her head. “Not going anywhere. I...the bedroom is around that corner. Do you want food or something? I feel like I should hydrate you.”  
  
“Are you worried about my hydration, love?”  
  
“It’s not at the top of my list, but…”  
  
Killian laughs softly, lips ghosting over the crown of her head. “I’m alright, Swan. But I’ll admit quick naps in a graveyard aren’t exactly resting.”

“I’ve been sleeping like absolute shit.”  
  
“You and me both.”  
  
She lets out a shaky noise, tongue darting between her lips because she’s started breathing through her mouth again. “I’m gonna--” Emma nods back towards the hallway and the bathroom and Killian hums in understanding. 

“Go, love.” She wavers, chewing on her tongue with more nerves and fears she knows are obvious on her face. “It’s fine, Emma,” Killian promises. “I can drink some water if that’ll make you feel better.”  
  
“It might, honestly.”  
  
“Consider it done.”  
  
He squeezes her side, another smile that’s more like a smirk and a bit like flirting and Emma’s head isn’t quite spinning anymore, but the water she splashes on her face feels cold enough that she briefly wonders if she’s got any control over anything at all. 

She exhales slowly, resolutely refusing to look at her reflection in the mirror. And she’s never actually bothered to close the bathroom door. That’s probably important. Particularly when it comes to the _clothes thing_ and that’s not really a thing, but she can’t remember when she did laundry last and she’s just kind of been collapsing on her bed. She can’t sleep in jeans.

She can hear her mattress creak behind her. 

“C’mon, Swan,” Emma mumbles, mostly to herself and her mind starts at _that_ because that’s important too and maybe they should make a list of all the things they still have to talk about.

Post sleep. 

For sure. 

She’s got to take her jeans off. 

Emma hates how her fingers tremble when she moves them, drops of water falling from the ends of her fingers, and it takes a few tries to undo the button. And the zipper. She tugs and yanks, uses her feet for some ridiculous reason, but then the fabric is pooled at her ankles and the shirt she’s got on barely makes it past her hips. 

She takes a deep breath, only to let it out almost immediately, lungs not entirely impressed by either of those things and her eyes, finally, flit to the mirror in front of her. She looks like her. And not. There’s still a bit of red in her eyes, exhaustion and emotion in equal measure, with slight bags just above cheekbones that look almost _too_ pronounced and more than a few strands of hair falling out of a ponytail holder that’s been stretched beyond repair. 

It’s alarming and expected, another contradiction that makes perfect sense. Emma’s feet are starting to get cold. 

She nods once, meeting her own gaze and the hope that flutters between her fingers practically sings. So does her magic. The bed creaks again. 

And she spins before she loses her nerve, turning on her heels and walking back into the bedroom and the whole thing was obviously ridiculous because he looks just as nervous as she feels. Emma smiles. 

Killian’s eyebrows jump. 

“Oh,” he breathes, shoulders moving with the force of his exhale. Maybe she should have taken her jeans off earlier. That probably would have scandalized their friends. “This is real, right?”  
  
Emma nods slowly, heart hammering so hard against her chest she’s worried it will leave a bruise. That’s got a negative connotation. That’s not what this is. “Yeah,” she mutters. “I hope so, at least.”  
  
“I never imagined the lack of pants, so I’ve got to believe this is better than a dream.”  
  
“Was that a line?”  
  
“I’m far too distracted by your legs to come up with something like that right now.”

Emma laughs – a little watery and absolutely shaky, but the sound is almost warm and her magic is still doing something and Killian’s taken the hook off. He’s already under the blankets. “You start sleeping with your shirt on, then?” Emma asks, pleasantly surprised at how easy it is to keep walking forward. 

And mention _them_ as if there is a them and a past and, most importantly, a future. 

With a shared bed. 

She wonders where that box went. 

Killian’s lips quirk. “I wasn’t--”  
  
“--I mean, mine was admittedly kind of a line,” Emma admits, wholly selfish because she does it entirely for the reaction. His smile stretches across his whole face. 

He moves very quickly. And efficiently. The shirt lands...somewhere, she’s not entirely sure, can’t be bothered when there are so many other clothes everywhere, crawling next to him and curling against his side as soon as his arm lifts. 

Emma closes her eyes, letting the feel of him _feel_ , finally trusting herself to believe it’s real and he’s not going anywhere and neither one of them speak for a moment. So, naturally, she breaks the silence. “I’m--” she starts, frustrated by the lump in the back of her throat, “I’m so sorry, Killian.”  
  
He doesn’t respond immediately, just slumps further down the small pile of ragged pillows, and Emma’s worried she’s messed up again, but she can hear his heart quicken slightly and the kiss that lands on her forehead is as searing as anything that’s happened all day. 

“I know, love,” he says. “But--uh, we’ll...tomorrow, aye?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. And I’m sure we’re ruining all the clichés already, what with the distinct lack of ravishing tonight, but--”  
  
“--We’ve got time, right?” Emma asks, an unfair question when it’s infused with so much hope and want and them. Collectively. Killian brushes away the tears that land on her cheeks. 

“More than we’ll know what to do with.”  
  
Emma’s pulse settles, an even rhythm that finally feels human and consistent and the deep breath she takes is the most fulfilling thing she’s had happen in ages. She kisses just above his heart. “Ok,” she whispers, waving her hand to turn the lights off and neither one of them wake up once all night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's very nice that you guys are reading this. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	16. Chapter 16

“Gods, that’s stupid.”

The laugh he lets out tickles the back of her neck, making Emma shiver despite the small mountain of blankets she’s cocooned under and the arm around her waist tightens just a bit. They must have drifted at some point in the middle of the night, her back against his chest and it’s left them in the very pleasant position they’re in now – Killian’s lips ghosting over her skin and his fingers trailing over her thigh and Emma’s inhale sort of stutters its way into her lungs.

It is, as announced, stupid. 

And wonderful. 

And some kind of descriptor regarding the temperature. That doesn’t have anything to do with the blankets, but everything to do with his arm and his lips and...him. 

Full stop. 

She opens her eyes. 

There’s light everywhere, rays of sun peeking through half-closed blinds and casting shadows across the few inches of floor that aren’t still covered by dirty laundry. And, for the first time in quite some time, the shadows don’t freak her out.  
  
They’re...comforting or something, like it’s proof that the sun is there and today is possible and Emma’s teeth find her lower lip. 

She’s only a little worried about what the force of her smile will do to the paint on her walls. 

“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific, Swan,” Killian mumbles, nosing at her skin again and there’s got to be hair in his face. 

It doesn’t appear to be a problem. 

Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat, not exactly confusion, but maybe a bit of lingering sleep and how incredibly, impossibly comfortable she is. She can’t remember this mattress ever being this comfortable. 

It is not the mattress. 

Like. At all. 

“Regarding the overall stupidity of whatever it is you think I’m doing,” Killian continues, dropping his mouth to the curve of her shoulder and she kind of hates that she arches her back. She can’t help it. Biology, or whatever. 

And it makes him chuckle again, the feel of his smile pressed into a bit of skin because, at some point, her shirt has shifted as well and her shoulder is peeking above fabric and there are probably going to be red marks there from the scruff on his jaw. 

Gods, it’s weird to think she’ll relish that. 

And yet. 

“If you’re trying to get me to swoon over your vocabulary, it seems unnecessary,” Emma mutters, and it’s getting more and more difficult to breathe at a consistent level. 

His hand is ridiculous. 

She hopes it never stops moving. 

“Does it now?”  
  
Emma hums, not quite nodding because she’s also managed to knock a few pillows off the bed and she doesn’t really want to scrape her cheek against the mattress. “Yeah, yeah, yup,” she stammers, drawing another wholly unfair sound out of Killian. 

“Did you just say yup?”  
  
“I honestly have no idea.”

There is not a word to describe whatever noise he makes. It’s triumphant and overwhelming and so goddamn _attractive_ Emma is certain she’ll think about it on loop for, at least, the next forty-eight hours and then probably once every two days for good measure. His teeth graze her skin again, a brush of his tongue and press of his lips and her eyelids flutter. 

She’s certain she can still see the sun. 

That is, hands down, the single most sentimental thing she’s ever thought. 

And her back is still arched. 

“You squirm quite a bit, you know that, love?” Killian asks, voice turning slightly breathless and Emma’s going to take that as her own sign of vaguely romantic victory. 

“Is that a problem?”  
  
“Did I say that?”  
  
“This is not an organized conversation,” she says, not sure if she’s laughing or her voice is just going to do _that_ from now on, shaking slightly with the force of her joy and general sense of happiness. 

“Aye, well, you’re distracting. It’s difficult to--” Killian hisses in a breath, Emma twisting against him in a way that is only slightly deliberate. “Swan,” he warns. She moves again. So does his hand, away from the top of her leg to the inside, fingers dancing across skin and the edges of fabric and the light in the hallway turns on. Killian makes that noise again. “Well, that’s interesting isn’t it?”  
  
“Oh, don’t get smug.”  
  
“Would I do such a thing?”  
  
“You’re doing now,” Emma points out. “And doing a fairly pitiful job of answering my question, you know.”  
  
“Distracting, love, we’ve been over this.”  
  
She opens her eyes again, understanding rattling around her brain and her soul and it takes some finagling to twist around, Killian looking only slightly scandalized, but that means he’s also looking at her and Emma isn’t entirely prepared for the force of that. 

The sun, or whatever. 

“How long have you been awake?” 

He blinks. “Not long.”  
  
“Once more with feeling.”  
  
“Not long,” Killian repeats, but Emma scrunches her nose. It’s an unfair tactic, years of experience and a variety of curses that have led her to realize that one scrunch of her nose and a slight twist of her lips is, usually, more than enough to get him to do just about anything. 

She’s hoping they’ll get back to the ravishing eventually. 

Just maybe after the talking. 

That will probably make the ravishing better. 

“Babe,” Emma continues. She has to shimmy some more to get her hands free, scratching her nails lightly at Killian’s chest and it’s not entirely bare. 

She’d noticed it the night before – or, well, half noticed it, but that sounds kind of horrible and she’d rather not consider that word for the rest of the morning. It’s leather, a band that circles around his shoulder and wraps around his elbow, a makeshift harness and more at the end of his arm. Emma’s eyes narrow, trying without much success to avoid staring, but she can tell it’s well made and she’s got more than a few suspicions about that. She can see where the hook clicks in, a bit of metal and more bands of leather and she reaches her fingers out. 

Only to pull them away. 

And reach forward. 

And back. 

Her teeth threaten to dig through her lip, a charged energy in the air that isn’t quite tension, because she’s still pants-less and her mind keeps bouncing back to ravishing and how much she’d like to get her mouth back on Killian’s, but there’s _something_ there and they’ve got to acknowledge it. 

There’s no way around it. 

“Old habits,” Killian murmurs, answering a question Emma has genuinely forgotten about. She scrunches her nose so hard it almost hurts. 

And his laugh isn’t anything except absolutely confident, the sound of it stretching across the minimal amount of space between them in a bed that is not made for more than one person. It breaks through those charged air particles and drifts over Emma’s skin, lighting metaphorical fires and sparking literal magic, the feel of it making both of their eyes widen slightly. 

“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” he echoes. “Something about dawn, I’m sure. And sailors. I’ll have to look up the right cliché at some point.”  
  
“Can’t remember it now, huh?”  
  
“How many times would you like me to tell you that you’re capable of driving a man to distraction, love?”  
  
“I mean--” Emma starts, and she can’t shrug on her side, but she tries and it’s difficult to stay balanced like that. Killian’s hand moves again, brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead and she’s not sure if he means to let the tips of his fingers linger on her temple, but they do and there are more sparks, of the metaphorical and literal variety, and -”I think I’m pretty much caught up to speed.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Did you...well, I know there’s the sailor cliché and like...red skies at night?”  
  
“I’m not sure that’s relevant in this situation, honestly.” Emma clicks her teeth, not really frustration, just more nervous excitement and generic hope and she has so many questions her mind can’t possibly be expected to land on one. “You’re thinking, love,” Killian says, and _that_ isn’t really an accusation, but it might be a statement or, at least, the starting point of this inevitable conversation. 

“Are you going to be weird if I apologize?”  
  
That’s not the way she planned that. She didn’t plan it, really. So, maybe it’s exactly right. 

Killian smiles. “Yes, incredibly.”  
  
“C’mon--that’s not helpful at all.”  
  
“Well, seeing as I’ve spent the better part of the morning trying to surreptitiously wake you up so I could do the same thing, it only seems fair that I get first crack at it.”

Emma’s lips actually pop when her mouth falls open. It’s probably not attractive. Killian’s eyebrows suggest otherwise. “Wait, what?”  
  
“I did consider getting up to make coffee before we did this, but you were rather twisted around me and I didn’t--”  
  
“--Oh, no, no, no, you do not get to use that,” Emma cuts in. It makes his eyebrows do something else absurd, jumping and arching and she refuses to be blamed for the way her body shudders. She’s far too busy tilting her head up to kiss him anyway. 

And it’s not their best work. 

Emma knows her breath is a little stale and Killian’s lips are drier than normal, but it still feels a bit like coming home and settling back into something and whatever noise he makes when she slings her arm around him is dangerously close to perfect. 

“I didn’t want to move,” he admits softly, sounding like he’s giving up state secrets. 

She kisses him again 

It gets better. And longer. Roaming hands and fingers in his hair, the feel of his tongue against her mouth. They rock and press together, far too much skin and not nearly enough, the heavy weight of his brace landing on the small of her back when he tugs her closer to his chest. 

“Don’t then,” Emma mumbles. It’s not a command. It doesn’t even really make sense, but she can feel Killian’s smile against her mouth and it’s probably more like a plea. 

“Not even if I tried, love.”

She makes a noise in the back of her throat, more contentment and magic, inhaling deeply like she’ll be able to breath in the sentiment as well. “Why do you think you need to be apologizing for anything?” Emma asks, voice dropping when the emotion wells in the back of her throat. “That’s just--you didn’t do anything.”  
  
“Oh, that’s not true at all, Swan--”  
  
“--No, no, come on, I--” She huffs, gritting her teeth and propping her head on her hand. She can’t actually move anymore, far too aware of Killian’s arm and the slightly pained expression on his face and she definitely should have come up with a list. 

The conversation would be a bit more streamlined then. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, disappointed at her inability to hold his gaze. Her eyes fall to the mattress, a distinct lack of sheets underneath them. That’s probably a metaphor. Maybe a cliché. She’s not the librarian in this relationship. “For--for all of it. Killian, I’m--” 

The words get caught in her throat, pinched vocal chords and even more emotion, and Emma wishes she could melt into the mattress. 

She doesn't. 

Obviously. 

And the stupid thing creaks when Killian shifts, thumb under her chin and understanding in his eyes as soon as he tilts Emma’s head back up. “I think we should start with the name thing,” he says, flashing a smile when Emma makes another noise of confusion. “Yours, love.”  
  
“My--oh, yeah, that’s uh…”  
  
“I’m going to tell Regina that you should make all the royal proclamations from here on out. You’re the most articulate woman I’ve ever met.”  
  
“Don’t mention Regina when I’m thinking about all the ways to actually get you naked.”

His eyes widen and the color that lands on his cheeks is the most delightful shade of red, a bit of modesty that’s as unexpected as it is misplaced. 

Emma, after all, is not wearing pants. 

“Distracting,” Killian mutters, but there’s that note of adoration there still and it’s difficult to be too upset when his mouth finds its way back to the side of her jaw. “And I thought about that too. When I was---”  
  
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Emma interrupts. She doesn’t want to hear the word _dead_ again. He’s not dead. He’s there. With her in. In a bed he didn’t want to get out of. 

Killian’s fingers graze over her side when he notices the shift in her voice – another flutter of magic. “I’m sure there’s a magical reason for it,” he says. “For us remembering bits and pieces of it, but--well, I couldn’t seem to get past your name. I--” He shakes his head, an incredulous smile that’s far too tight lipped. “I love you.”

“Gods, that’s sappy.”  
  
“Aye, it absolutely is. Did you use the name here?”  
  
“It was my name,” Emma reasons, another pitiful attempt at a shrug. “Is, even. Ok, so...yeah, this was--damn, it’s so weird to think about this place now. I can’t quite get everything to fit, you know what I’m saying?”  
  
Killian hums, the tip of his tongue pushing against the side of his cheek. “Perfectly. Were you really the sheriff here?”  
  
“You were a librarian, weren’t you?”  
  
“Touché.” 

Emma makes a face – not a victory, because it isn’t actually an argument, but it may be flirting and she’s lost any sense of control regarding her pulse, her heartbeat or her magic. The super trifecta of making Killian’s eyes bug slightly. “If I think about it, it all does kind of match up,” she reasons. “You know, with...Regina--”  
  
“--Swan, the naked’ness!”  
  
She swats at his chest, but he’s always had ridiculous reflexes and his fingers are warm when they wrap around her wrist. Emma nearly swallows both her lips and her tongue when he kisses the bend of her knuckles. 

She hasn’t told him she loves him back yet. 

Maybe she should get that sky-written.  
  
“That’s not fair,” she grumbles, and it only serves to get another kiss, which is actually kind of a victory all things considered. “What I’m saying is we all kind of matched up here. From what we were before. I...it makes a lot of sense that I’d be Emma Swan. Even cursed.”

Killian doesn’t respond immediately. Emma isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not, but it only takes a few moments to realize it may be the best thing because his expression shifts again, dark blue and decidedly emotional and--“Are you going to take credit for the name thing?”  
  
“That seems incredibly selfish, don’t you think?”  
  
Emma makes a contrary noise, burrowing further against him and letting her legs tangle with his. “Well, really,” she mumbles, “it’s kind of yours. If you want to get technical.”  
  
Killian freezes. Not tenses. Not flinches. Freezes. Completely. As if he’s been stunned or thrown completely off course and that’s a fairly solid sailor-type pun that Emma doesn’t actually voice, her own emotions churning like a variety of tides and she’s got to stop making jokes. 

His mouth parts slightly, a burst of air on her cheek and her chin and the bridge of her nose. It’s quiet, not much more than an exhale that Emma’s certain she can only hear based on the rules of True Love or feelings supported by a variety of mythical figures and that’s as long as it takes him to move. 

Pounce, really. 

But that sounds a little negative too and she’s far too busy laughing and smiling and rocking her hips up to be anything except entirely and explicitly positive. 

Emma digs her shoulder blades back into the mattress, hair fanning out under her when Killian’s mouth catches hers. Her hands fly up, searching for purchase in a distinct lack of fabric, and it only to leads to more soft scratches on his back and fingers carding through his hair, working a handful of very particular noises out of him while his body rocks against hers. 

She has no idea when he found his way on top of her. 

She’s glad he did. 

He’s got very good balance, she thinks absently, Killian’s legs bracketing either side of her hips with most of his weight resting on his forearms. Emma can’t seem to stop moving, rocking up at the same time he rocks down and there’s far too many clothes and not enough clothes and her mattress is going to break at some point. 

It will be a gallant death, she’s sure. 

“Pants, pants, pants,” she mutters, working a laugh out of Killian. His head’s dropped at some point, searing kisses she’s sure are leaving brands on her skin. The scruff on his jaw leaves a pleasant burn as well, her breathing picking up like she’s moved somewhere. 

She has not. 

Although Emma feels as if she could run to Misthaven at this point. 

That may have something to do with her magic, the weight of it settling between each one of her ribs and surging through every single vein and artery she is in biological possession of. And for a moment, Emma isn’t sure what that noise is, but then she realizes---

The soft crackle between her fingers isn’t really electricity. It’s more like energy and light, an inextricable mix that’s heady and, possibly, a little greedy, because it seems to be feeding on the feeling blossoming her chest. 

“You’ve got to take this shirt off, love,” Killian mumbles, tugging on fabric and they both gasp at the telltale sounds of threads ripping. 

“Oh my God, calm down with your feats of strength.”  
  
“Swan, you are genuinely emitting magic, I don’t think you’ve got a leg to stand on here.”  
  
“I’m not interested in standing at all, that’s going to make this a lot more complicated than it has to be.”

He snorts, laughter and kisses peppering her cheek and her collarbone, drifting towards her ribcage and further, further, _further_. She can only imagine how he looks under the blankets, knees barely staying on the mattress and feet, very likely, on the floor, but she’s less interested in the structure of what’s happening and more in that it’s _happening_ , kisses pressed to the inside of her thigh and the bend of her knee. 

His fingers graze over her skin, more brands of the emotional variety, and Emma kind of hates that her eyes close again. 

She can’t help it. 

There’s another tear, more grumbled words about _the integrity of the fabric in this realm_ that would probably be less endearing if she weren’t so impossibly and completely in love with him and Emma supposes that emotion is rather important when the object of that affection has his head between her thighs. 

Killian pulls again, a jerk of his arm and twist of his hand and Emma’s eyes are still closed. She assumes this is what happens. And the first swipe of his tongue is like more magic and _actual_ electricity, a shock to every part of Emma’s entire system and her soul. She gasps, back arching high enough that she’s almost worried about the state of her spine, but then his arm shifts, palm flat across her stomach and fingers tracing easy patterns over her skin and she can’t do anything except...be. 

Her hands move again, fingers finding their way back to his hair, like she’s trying to keep him exactly where he is. He does not seem all that inclined to move. 

And she knows she should be frustrated at how quickly it all happens – a twist and a tightening and the pulse of her magic, but then there are stars bursting behind her eyes and an energy under her skin and the mattress creaks again. 

She doesn’t yank him up – can’t, there’s still no goddamn shirt, but her fingers find his belt loops and if this is how ravishing works then she’s not going to complain. Until. It slows. Killian slows. He leans back, brows pulled low and lips pressed together, an unreadable expression that makes her feel more than the pleasure still rippling through her. 

And Emma tries to catch her breath. 

It doesn’t work. 

She didn’t expect it to. 

Because the weight of his expression is heavy with everything they still haven’t said and apologies she’ll never be able to utter enough of and--  
  
“Can I see you?”

Killian tilts his head, eyes, somehow, getting even more narrow and Emma’s throat aches when she swallows. The tongue thing, again. Gods. 

“What?” he breathes, all cautious concern. Emma licks her lips. 

“You--I…” Her fingers don’t shake when she moves, twisting to free her hands and the leather under her touch is rough, as if it’s been worn by time and realms, saltwater and waking up at dawn. Killian’s jaw tightens. “I love you,” Emma whispers, not sure if that’s the right approach. It’s a honest one, though. 

And he shouldn’t have to apologize. 

For any of it. 

He will. She knows. And so will she. Over and over again until the words find their way into every corner of them, a foundation for the rest of everything. 

Killian shakes his head slowly – disbelief and trepidation, hair shifting with the force of it. “Swan, that’s--”  
  
“--I know,” she cuts in, because she does. She knows it will not be pretty. She’s not particularly interested in pretty. “But, I--well, the name thing was you. And it’s always been you and it’s…” Gods, she might be crying. 

He might be crying. 

And they have to break for kissing, some sort of True Love rule of the universe, but it’s not ravishing. It’s something closer to reverence. It’s all rhythm and rock, finding a pattern to their movements that’s like drifting back into those memories neither one of them ever really forgot.

“I love you,” Emma says again, Killian's body shifting again, the feel of him resting on her. She hears him swallow, a quick inhale and sharp exhale, lips pressed together and her thumb brushes over the pinch of his forehead. “Just you. Always.”  
  
He nods. 

And she doesn’t trust herself to move quickly, so Emma takes care on every shift, every bend of her elbow and flick of her finger, undoing buckles and pulling on leather, slow and mindful, almost too aware of every hitch in Killian’s breath. 

“It’s ok,” she whispers. He smirks at her. “Oh my God, are you serious right now?”  
  
“I’m wooing you, Swan, just go along with it.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
He twists his eyebrows, smirk turning into full-blown smile and they both know it’s working perfectly. Until. The brace pulls away from his arm, Killian’s quiet curses sounding like they reverberate around Emma’s skull for a moment. 

“Hey, hey,” she mutters, hating that she’s not able to sound more confident. He eyes her, a bit of fear and flash of something that’s almost anger. Emma smiles. “Look at me,” she continues, free hand going to his cheek. He kisses the inside of her wrist. “Seriously, if you don’t stop trying to get me to--”  
  
“--Swoon, love, obviously.”  
  
“Gods.”  
  
Killian laughs, another kiss and poor distraction technique. His left hand is still hanging in the air, eyes looking anywhere except it and her, but Emma’s aren’t quite that tactful and her gaze darts towards the skin she knew would look like that. 

She has to lick her lips again anyway. 

Because it’s bad. It’s...bad. She can’t come up with another word, is only a little disappointed by her own limited vocabulary, but it’s bad. The skin is knotted, scars that she’s sure were angrier at some point and have dulled with time and distance. There’s a hint of gray to it, like the darkness is still clinging just a bit and the color makes her stomach heave, a jump in her gut and twist of her throat. 

She blinks. There are tears there. 

And Killian refuses to meet her gaze. 

“Told you,” he mumbles, a disregard to the pain and the moments and that’s what does it. Or, at least, what pushes her over the edge. Metaphorically. 

Emma pulls his arm up, a wholly uncomfortable twist of her own limbs and turn that her spine _does not_ appreciate, but she’s determined and stubborn and if she’s going to apologize for everything several thousand times, then this is how she’s going to start. 

She kisses the blunt end of his arm. Once, twice, over and over, trying to cover every inch of it with the force of her feeling and the burst of her magic, doing her best to make him understand and believe and--

“Every single time,” Emma mutters, like that makes sense. “For curses or worse.”  
  
Killian lets out a shaky, watery laugh, eyes lifting up to meet hers and there’s so much there. It’s blue and deep, another misplaced word and measure of distance that’s really just how obviously he loves her back. “Is that how it goes, then?”  
  
“Probably depends on the realm, I guess.”  
  
“And which one are we talking about here?”  
  
“Dealers choice.”  
  
He scoffs, some of the tension leaving his shoulder blades disappearing. “A good, if misused idiom, Swan.”  
  
“Ah, well, now you’re getting into specifics and--”

She doesn’t finish. He doesn’t let her. It is a loss she’s more than happy to take, another burst of kisses and friction, fingers that drift back to belt loops and zippers, yanking and tugging and pushing and Emma cannot get her shirt off. 

“This is ridiculous,” she mutters, one arm out of one sleeve and the other inexplicably twisted behind her. Killian is mouthing against the side of her neck, seemingly more than content to do that while she deals with the clothes, but then there’s a hand under her back and her bra is gone and--she makes a noise. 

Several noises, in fact. All of them are a little breathless and excited and Emma is dimly aware of Killian’s smile when he shifts again. 

He may groan.  
  
“Oh, I’m going to--” Emma starts, but the rest of the words get caught in her throat and disappear on her tongue as soon as his body finds hers and there’s some metaphor about _whole_ to be made. She doesn’t. 

She cants her hips up instead and wraps her legs around the back of his thighs and it’s good and great and-- _yeah, like that_ and _Gods, love you feel good_ and _just...just move your hand_ and _oh fuck there_. 

The lightbulb in the hallway bursts. 

Killian’s head falls to the curve of Emma’s shoulder, body shaking while she trails her fingertips over the ridges of his spine. She clicks her tongue. “I’m going to be impossibly smug about that for a very long time too,” he mumbles, and she can’t really blame him. 

“You know what, I’m going to take that as a compliment.”  
  
“Well you were an enthusiastic participant.”

“Jeez.”  
  
“Tell me I’m wrong.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“Sounds like a _you are absolutely right, Killian_ to me.”  
  
“Yeah, you’d think that,” Emma groans, and there’s absolutely no frustration in her voice. Love, possibly, but no frustration. He hasn’t made any move to flip back onto his side of the bed, a pleasant heaviness that makes it a little difficult to breathe, but easier to keep touching him and that’s kind of the point. 

The brace is on the ground. 

“I love you,” Emma adds, one side of her mouth tugging up. She’s not really trying to reach some kind of quota, but it gets easier to say every time and she wants to keep saying it and reminding and it’s kind of selfish too. Because-- "I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Swan, you’ve got to stop apologizing, love.”  
  
“But--”  
  
“--Ok,” Killian sighs, flopping back to his side of the bed. HIs hair is stuck up in the back. Emma going to take that as a compliment too. “Why?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Why?

“Why what?”

“Swan.”  
  
“No, no, I genuinely don’t understand the question,” she mutters, only a little flustered and that’s definitely because of his hair. And the pants. The distinct lack of pants. He is exuding heat, she’s positive. “Are you kidding me? I mean...babe, I--”  
  
“--You know, I’m going to have to request that you keep doing that when we get back home. I’m a big fan.”  
  
Emma laughs. “Yeah?”  
  
“Was the ravishing not obvious?”  
  
“Ah, so we’re calling that ravishing, huh?”  
  
“Swan, don’t act like you weren’t properly ravished,” Killian chastises, crowding back into her space so he can trail kisses against her jaw and she’s going to have magically fix her spine. “And I know what you did, love. I thought of not much else for several years, but I also know that I--” He takes a deep breath, the force of it moving his chest under her and Emma doesn’t dare look up. “I’m not sure I would have been able to do anything differently. If it was you.”  
  
“Are you going to make fun if I say _what_ again?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Well that’s stupid.”  
  
“We’re going in circles, darling.” Her magic...does something, Killian’s eyes widening in more misplaced relationship triumph. He kisses her. Not hard. Not bruising. Just kisses her. Like it’s only natural. “We fucked it all up didn’t we?”  
  
She scoffs, unable to disagree. “Yeah, I guess so,” Emma mumbles. “I just...you were right. What you said before. In the track or on the track, what’s the right grammar there?”  
  
“On, I believe.”

“Really?” Killian hums, a small smile tugging at the ends of his mouth. “Huh. Whatever, I--you were right. I wouldn't let you die. And I know I should regret that, I’m not...it’s not like I’m proud of it, but I couldn’t--” She grimaces when she retreats back to excuses and almost-lies. “Wouldn’t,” Emma corrects. “I wouldn’t do it. And it’d be the same no matter what. Every single time. Even if...I don’t know, you tripped or something.”  
  
“You think I’m tripping over something and immediately dying?” Killian asks skeptically. “That’s a distinct lack of confidence in my balance, Swan.”

“You’re being difficult on purpose.”  
  
“Naturally,”

Another scoff and more magic, nerves and butterflies and the seemingly overwhelming desire to keep kissing him. She’s getting kind of hungry. “Can I ask something?”  
  
“You don’t need to double check.”  
  
“It’s not really great,” she grimaces, Killian’s eyes widening expectantly, “are you ok? And I know, I _know_ that’s an impossibly big question and stupid unfair--”  
  
“--Stupid unfair?”  
  
“Ok, the interrupting is not cool.”

He hums, a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Go on, Swan.”

“I wouldn’t let you die,” she repeats. “And I--well, it was wrong. It...I know you weren’t all dark and, Gods, it’s ridiculous to tell you that it wouldn't have made a difference even if you were--”  
  
“--You may want to reconsider some of that eventually.”  
  
Emma scowls. Killian grins. “I’m going to punch you.”  
  
“Please don’t do that.”  
  
She huffs, still a lack of any real frustration. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry for forcing you into that and ignoring what you wanted because it wasn’t what I wanted and I--you told Regina you didn’t have any magic.”  
  
“Was that you double checking?”  
  
“Kind of,” Emma admits. “I guess I just want to make sure that’s not...when my magic started disappearing here, it was like losing my tether. And that wasn't sudden. It kind of drifted out and then surged when--”

“--You got to New York.”  
  
She tries to punch him. He doesn't let her. So she kisses him instead. It seems like a fair trade. “Are you ok?” Emma asks again, the words mumbled against his mouth and it leaves his whole body taut for a moment. 

“That’s a very broad question.”  
  
“I don’t have anywhere to go.”  
  
“And that’s a complete lie.”  
  
“Eh,” she objects, laughing when he hisses at the overall temperature of her feet. “I’ve got priorities or whatever.”  
  
“Whatever,” Killian echoes. “How can your feet be this cold? You have not left the blankets.”  
  
“A modern marvel.”  
  
“Something like that.” He chuckles again, letting go of a breath Emma didn’t realize he’d been holding. It ruffles her hair and makes her heart pick up and she hopes and wants and she can probably figure out how to get back to Misthaven on her own. “And, I, uh--I don’t know, love. Honestly. It’s...I don’t think it’s as jarring as yours was because, like you said, mine wasn’t...it wasn’t exactly part of me, right?”  
  
“Is magic part of me?”  
  
Killian hums, sounding surprised at the question. “Of course.”  
  
“Shit, that sounds horrible.”  
  
“No, no, it’s a compliment. It’s---you did shatter a lightbulb before.”  
  
“That was a distinct sign of my lack of control,” Emma argues. “Regina would--”  
  
“--I thought we agreed, Swan,” he grins, and it’s clear he fully expects her eye roll. Her nose is going to stay permanently scrunched. “But, well, it was there and it was...powerful, for lack of a better word, and even when we were here, when I didn’t remember and didn’t know, there were moments when I did kind of.”

“The bar?” 

Killian nods, a flash of regret in his gaze. “And Times Square. But it was easier when you were there too, like I was regaining my moorings. Don’t make fun of that,” he adds quickly, one side of his mouth pulled up. Emma presses her lips together. “I never wanted the magic, Swan, not at the beginning, at least. And it didn’t really want me. It wasn’t pleased by someone who wasn’t willing to give in all that easily.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But,” he echoes, half a smile and a bit of disappointed amusement in his gaze, “things changed. The years got longer and the voices got louder and--” It’s just disappointment now. “You were right. On the track. I never tried to show I was the Dark One, but I certainly didn’t mind using the magic at some points. And, now, well...it’s strange now, to be...here, again, but it’s also normal?”  
  
“That was a question.”  
  
“Aye, well, that’s because I’ve lost track of the definition of the word, at this point.”  
  
“And that’s shitty.”  
  
“A little,” Killian admits. “But with the potential for getting better.” He sighs, although it doesn’t sound all that dejected. It sounds a little hopeful and a little cautious, like he doesn’t want to get too far ahead of himself and that box Emma’s mind keeps drifting back to. “Right now,” he continues, “it’s a bit like floating. Peaceful, almost, but there’s still a threat of riptide. And missing the magic.”  
  
Emma’s laugh isn’t much, but her heart is still a little irregular and that’s still probably because of his hair. And his eyes. And how they both direct right back to her. “Do you think that’s why you could always feel it?” she asks. “My magic, I mean. That--that the world knew you’d have your own at some point too?”

“It’s possible, I guess.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“There doesn’t have to be another contradiction.”  
  
“Please,” Emma mutters. “That...almost makes sense, don’t you think?”  
  
Killian clicks his tongue. “I’m not sure I want it to, honestly.”  
  
“No?”

“Nah. I--that magic wasn’t part of me, Swan. Not really. And I’d felt yours long before mine showed up. It...I understand why you did it and I would have done the same thing, I--it was like waking up, turning around in that hallway and finding you again and I would have...I was half in love with you from the moment I saw you, Emma. Every single time.”  
  
“Oh, God that’s stupid sentimental.”  
  
“Yes, that was the general idea.”

She’s not crying, so that’s certainly a step in the right direction, especially considering this is still a post-coital discussion and they really need to eat at some point, but Emma’s magic reacts anyway and her pulse is never going to recover and she wants, wants, _wants_. With her whole soul. “I love you,” she says. 

Killian beams. “It’s just us. Not the magic. Or the prophecy. Or anything else. Just us.”  
  
Her stomach growls. 

Emma curses under her breath, flopping dramatically on her back with her arm flung over her face and the sound of Killian’s laugh echoing off her otherwise depressing apartment walls. 

“The most dignified princess in all the realms,” he chuckles, hands moving back over the curve of her hip and pulling her against his chest. There’s got to be hair in his mouth. “Are you hungry, then, Swan?”  
  
“Was that not obvious?”  
  
“That may require us to get out of bed, you know.”  
  
Emma groans. “Do you want to shower?”  
  
“Sounds like you’re suggesting I should.”

“I’m offering you the shower first,” she counters, already pushing up and regretting the loss of heat and something else that might just be the safety of affection and getting _this_ back. “So that I can make food.”  
  
“That so?”

“The teasing is only cute for so long.”

He shakes his head, the unruly bits of hair moving with him and Emma’s breath hitches when his lips catch hers. That seems to have been his goal. “Gods, I love that,” Killian mumbles. “And, I believe, your highness, you just admitted to finding me cute, so--”  
  
“--Oh my God, go shower,” she snaps. It earns her another kiss, a nip of teeth and swipe of his tongue that makes her whole head spin, but then the mattress is creaking and Emma’s feet are moving and she hopes there is, actually, food in her fridge. 

She finds, exactly, one box of pancake mix. 

And she’s halfway through making far too many pancakes when she hears the footsteps behind her, the soft creak of the floor under his obviously bare feet. It’s endearing in a way she doesn’t entirely expect, but would also like to covet, leaning back as soon as Killian’s arms work their way around her middle. 

“Smells delicious.”  
  
“I literally added water.”  
  
“Ah, but I wasn’t talking about the pancakes.”

“Oh, what a line,” Emma mutters, the words more than a little wobbly as soon as his mouth finds the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “If you leave a mark there, I’ll--” She gasps at the feel of his teeth on her skin, magic simmering in the pit of her stomach that only seems to spur him on more and--  
  
“You were saying, Swan?”  
  
“Way too confident.”  
  
“Something about years of practice and making up for lost time, I’m sure.”

She chews on her lower lip, doing her best to maintain control of the situation and avoid any possible small kitchen fires, but that lasts all of two and a half seconds and then Emma’s spinning on the spot, pushing up on toes and letting her arms twist around Killian’s neck.

He’s smiling. 

That’s important. 

In a sparking everyone’s magic kind of way. 

“What?” he asks softly, an expression she’s never seen and only ever wants to see again. He looks a little stunned, drops of water hanging on his temple and he’s put the same clothes back on, but it’s just a t-shirt and the t-shirt is good and she has to curl her fingers around his shoulders to keep her balance. 

“I’m really happy,” Emma whispers, like that’s an admission and not almost painfully obvious. She’s a little offended by the crinkles around in his eyes. And whatever they do to her magic. “Just kind of...surprising, I guess.”  
  
“Aye, love me too.”

She’s genuinely not surprised by the kissing, expects it to happen quicker, honestly, but then they’re both moving and the rhythm is starting to get so familiar at this point, Emma is positive she’s memorized the feel of him against her. 

It’s...wonderful. 

She needs to read more books. 

She will do that once she’s stopped fixating on the noise Killian makes, a low growl that rumbles out of him and settles into her and that’s about all it takes for the rhythm to shift. Drastically. They’re going to burn down the whole goddamn apartment. 

It will be worth it. 

“Oh, to hell with the pancakes,” Emma mutters, pushing on his chest and he really is very good at keeping his balance. He drops back onto the edge of the kitchen table, bringing her with him and shifting Emma between his legs, hand and hook moving towards the tie of the bathrobe she’d put on at some point and--

Someone knocks on the door. 

Kicks, really. It’s loud, whatever body part it is, as if the person on the other side of the door has put all their weight behind the movement. 

Emma doesn’t stop kissing Killian. Or the other way around. Her hand moves to the back of his neck, pulling him forward and it earns her another noise and another kick and she’s only a little worried about how tightly her fingers are curled around his shoulders. 

It sounds like someone has thrown a boulder at her front door.  
  
“I don’t want to be here either,” Ruby calls, Killian groaning into Emma’s mouth and she’s not sure if that is all from the interruption. She leans back, smile amused and breathing a very distinct challenge.  
  
“Do you know what time it is?” she asks.  
  
Killian shakes his head. “Too early.”  
  
“I heard that,” Ruby says, a huff when, what sounds like her shoulder, lands on the door. “And I have to agree with the pirate, but David is freaking out and---am I interrupting something?”  
  
“No,” Emma sighs at the same time Killian yells “yes, obviously” and Ruby appears to be cackling. It’s very loud, at least. 

“At least he owned to it, Em.”  
  
Emma sighs, head falling onto Killian’s chest. He kisses her hair. “Why isn’t Mary Margaret controlling David’s freakouts?”  
  
“Shit if I know,” Ruby, presumably, shrugs. “But I think Isaac is getting impatient with us and--”  
  
“--That’s very easily remedied,” Killian interrupts.

“Yeah, yeah, and, again, I agree, but David is frustratingly pigheaded when he gets an idea and I think he believes Emma can convince this guy not to be an absolute dick and--”  
  
“--Wow, that is a lot of pressure,” Emma says. 

Ruby hisses. “I can tell something is going on. You guys...well, you’re noisy. And potent.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“It’s a wolf thing.”  
  
“Oh my God!”  
  
“It’s a wonder you were able to fool anyone at home ever. Even without making constant eyes and sneaking off and--”  
  
“--We did not make eyes,” Emma shouts, but even Killian makes a contrary noise at that and she can’t fight the double team. It’s not much of a fight.

“I was definitely making eyes,” he admits. 

Ruby definitely cackles. “See! Thank you, Jones. And, uh, Em, I know you guys are all honeymoon’ing in there, but strictly speaking there should be a proposal before that and we do have a kingdom to save. Still.”  
  
“Always, it seems,” Killian grumbles, and Emma notices the tips of his ears have gone red. She will try very hard not to think about the box for, at least, the next two hours. Maybe three. 

“I heard that too,” Ruby yells. “Get on that wedding, then!”  
  
Killian sighs, every one of his teeth obvious when he grits them. “You better go shower, love,” he mutters. “I’ll make coffee and we’ll go see about this saving the kingdom thing.”  
  
It’s a very simple sentence. It’s not even proper structure, really. But Emma’s heart swells and her emotions threaten to burst out of her, a decidedly disgusting descriptor for what is the nicest feeling and she takes the world’s deepest breath before she nods. 

“I love you.”  
  
He kisses the pinch between her eyebrows. “And I love you. Go, maybe it’ll warm up your feet.”

It doesn’t, really, but there’s cinnamon in her coffee and Emma can only imagine how many cabinets he had to open to find _that_ , so she figures it’s a wash, particularly when a very self-satisfied Ruby is sitting cross-legged on her steps when they open the door. 

“We good?” she asks, false brightness and fake positivity and Emma knows something has happened in the last twelve hours. Figures. 

She nods. It’s a lie. It’s an obvious lie. Ruby rolls her eyes. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Killian says, an arm moving around Emma’s shoulders almost immediately. 

A second eye roll. “You want your sword don’t you?”  
  
“We’re going to leave without you, Lady Lucas.”  
  
“Gods, that’s getting old.”  
  
“That was your idea, Rubes,” Emma points out. And, that time, she gets a bit of pointed and obviously opinionated tongue with the eye roll. “Is there some kind of dungeon we should be teleporting to?”  
  
“I’m going to tell Regina you said that.”  
  
“And it’s not an answer,” Killian says. He’s already trying to move, an impatient energy that Emma understands perfectly. Ruby huffs, but she also looks almost repentant, fingers fluttering over the front of her amulet when she jerks her head towards the end of the street. 

Towards the clock tower. 

“I’ll give you three guesses.”  
  
“Goddamn,” Emma sighs, but they’re walking and there’s still an arm around her shoulders that eventually becomes an arm next to her and she’s not entirely sure when it happens, but her fingers curl around his hook again and the soft hint of smile he flashes her direction when Ruby opens _another_ door is nearly reassuring. 

Until she sees Isaac. 

Or who she assumes is Isaac. 

There’s a small crowd around him – a glowering David and clearly magic-prone Regina if the low rumble coming from the ground is any indication. Mary Margaret appears to be tracing the same few feet of space, fingers flexing at her side, and both Will and Belle are sitting on the same windowsill, shoulders bumping whenever Belle flips the page of the book in her hands. 

They all jump when the door slams shut, and Emma doesn’t mean for her grip on Killian’s hook to tighten. And, rationally, Emma knows he can’t actually feel that, but he can _absolutely_ feel her magic, the way it spikes and twists, rises up in some misplaced attempt to protect because she’s fairly positive she has to. 

Isaac looks like complete and utter shit. 

His eyes are hollow, a gray pallor to his skin that makes it clear he hasn’t seen the sun in quite some time and his lips are obviously chapped. His hair is matted to his forehead, greasy and grimy and probably some other word that starts with ‘g’ and may just be gross. 

It’s gross. 

He’s gross. 

Mary Margaret was right about the smell. 

Emma exhales, but the sound is a bit more like a gag than she wants it to be and her magic flares in her chest. The ends of her hair flicker with barely contained light and she doesn’t notice it at first. 

“Whoa,” Ruby says, widening her eyes at Emma’s quiet hum of confusion because that word was not meant for her. 

Emma shakes her head, but Ruby’s eyes don’t return to their correct size and Belle’s hand is frozen mid-turn and it takes approximately four seconds, and one mumbled _oh_ to snap her gaze to her right. Her fingers tighten again. 

And Killian doesn’t look away from Isaac. 

He doesn’t look entirely like him either. It’s...something else than it was with the darkness. There are no obvious shadows, no pulse of magic or feel of anything except how low his eyebrows get and how thin his lips go, a snap of his shoulders and shift of his spine, like it’s getting longer somehow, a _presence_ that makes it all too clear that the pirate she loves has quite suddenly become the pirate everyone fears and Isaac’s laugh rings out in the silence around them. 

“Oh, Captain, Captain, Captain, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”  
  
Killian sneers, gaze going sharp and Emma flips her free hand, the ball of light and burst of magic bright and decidedly powerful and it’s a strange counterbalance that she’ll probably think about when she’s got time to think about anything. 

“I’d heard about you, Hook, absolutely horrible, terrible stories,” Isaac continues, rocking forward where he’s sitting on the floor. There aren’t any shackles, no signs of physical restraint, but Emma can see scorch marks on the tiles and she gapes at Regina. 

“Do not,” Regina cautions. “That wasn’t easy magic.”  
  
“He tried to run,” David explains, drifting back towards Mary Margaret and that would probably be nice in any other situation. “That’s--I really was not trying to ruin your day.”  
  
Killian hums, a note of disbelief in the sound. He’s still staring at Isaac. “Why would you do that? You want to go home, don’t you?”

“Is it home though?” Isaac challenges. “For you, at least?”

“That’s not an answer.”

Isaac chuckles again, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands and Emma hadn’t noticed what Mary Margaret was holding. The pen. With her blood in it. 

“True, true,” Isaac agrees. “You know, I wasn’t born with my power either, Hook. Inherited it, rather brutally from the last author. And I didn’t realize what I was getting myself into, but, lo and behold, I became rather sought after. Particularly by those who wanted to control things. Set an example, settle into a plan.”  
  
“And I take it that’s not really your schtick,” Emma mutters, sensing where this is going and maybe she’s starting to enjoy the fire thing. 

“It was at the beginning, your highness. A well-constructed story is a very difficult thing to achieve. You’ve got to hit all the high points, the emotional cues. Nothing worse than a disappointing climax is there?”  
  
“Get to your fucking point,” Killian growls. He’s got one foot in front of him now, like he’s getting ready to pounce, but Emma’s still got a pretty solid grip on his hook and his shoulders twist again when he feels the shift in her magic. 

Isaac smiles. Slow. Measured. As if he knows exactly what he’s doing. “I am, Hook,” he promises. “That is my point. All these stories. All these bits and pieces, coming together, getting rid of superfluous characters. You lot all think you’re in control of me, but that’s not true is it? And you, my dear, Captain, you’ve suffered as much as anyone. What are you all going back to? A broken kingdom and a string of regrets that you’re, finally, starting to remember. It’ll be interesting, that’s for sure.”  
  
“Why run though?” Emma challenges. She makes a noise in the back of her throat when Isaac jumps to his feet – and the pulse of magic from _everyone_ is impressive. Her light flares, a sudden cage around Isaac that seems excessive considering the fire at his feet as well. The ground shifts again, David mumbling words under his breath, and Mary Margaret’s grip on the pen in her hand tightens threateningly. 

Ruby may growl. 

And Killian freezes. In a way that cannot possibly be comfortable. He’s half leaning forward, free hand reaching for his belt and Emma’s heart thuds, the sound of the magic in her ears at war with the silence around him and Isaac’s increasingly obnoxious laugh. 

“Because I am tired of the stories,” Isaac answers. “Of playing for the rest of you. And setting you up for success. I’ll write you home, but I want my own story as well. I want that slice of the pie, so to speak.”  
  
“Gods, we really are talking in clichés all the time, aren’t we?” Ruby mumbles. 

“You know, Hook,” Isaac continues, “it would be very easy for me to write a different story for you. Erase all those pesky things you did back in Misthaven. I can’t--well, I can’t bring people back to life, but I could probably make you forget about them. Maybe then you’ll feel a bit more worthy in front of the princess.”  
  
Killian doesn’t answer, but a muscle in his jaw jumps and Emma knows it is absurd to turn her back on the villain. Another villain. Gods, she’s going to sleep for forty-seven years. 

She spins, untwisting the knotted charms hanging from his neck and curling her fingers around the front of his jacket. Her smile doesn’t feel quite right, but they don’t have a ton of other options and she can’t imagine there are a lot of magic beans in the Land Without Magic. 

He wasn’t being entirely honest about the magic thing. 

“How’d you get the scar?”  
  
Killian blinks, Regina all but growling next to him and Will may actually mumble _did they always act like this_ under his breath. “Worse,” Mary Margaret mumbles, but it doesn’t sound like an insult. There’s a bird chirping somewhere. 

“Wonderland.”  
  
“Wonderland?”  
  
“Aye,” Killian says, soft enough that Emma has to strain to hear it even standing in front of him. Her fingers trail up, ghosting over the thin line and this isn’t the time or the place and Isaac is still making that goddamn noise, but there’s probably a cliché about stories and starting new ones or something. “Horrible place. But, uh...a rumor about a man and a hat that could open up portals to other realms and it was another dead end and--”  
  
“--Killed several of them, didn’t you, Hook?” Isaac interrupts knowingly. 

Killian licks his lips. “Aye, I did. Although that one monster wasn’t my fault.”  
  
“Monster?” Emma echoes. _They do not have time for this_. Isaac is still in that cage of her magic.

“Bandersnatch?” Regina asks, but the question seems more like a courtesy than anything else. Killian tilts his head. “Yeah,” she continues, dragging the word out, “my mother--before, well, before I went to the Dark One, she’d spent time in Wonderland. You didn’t happen to brutally murder her as well, did you?”  
  
“Oh my God, Regina,” Emma sighs. 

“I don’t believe so, no,” Killian says. “But you’re right about the bandersnatch. Rather sharp talons on that thing.”  
  
Regina hums, lower lip jutted out in something that may be understanding or possibly pride, which seems a little misplaced, but Isaac looks more than a little stunned that his story didn’t serve its intended purpose and--

“I’ve had an idea, your highness,” Killian muses, a quick kiss pressed to Emma’s forehead. She hopes that keeps being a thing. Her magic is out of control. 

“Don’t hold back now, pirate.”  
  
He gives her a tight smile, but Regina almost looks like she’s having fun. “I seem to be without a sword right now, but--” He holds up the hook--”Not entirely unprepared. And I also seem to recall you having the rather impressive ability of coercion when hearts are involved.”  
  
Isaac pales. Noticeably. So does David. And Mary Margaret. 

Emma is...considering it. 

She wants to go home. She doesn’t want Isaac to be a problem. She wants to start over. 

Clean pages and emotional high points that they’ll get to in a normal amount of time with normal experiences and far too much flirting at inopportune moments. She wants the box. 

“I think that’s a compliment,” Regina says, a quick shrug from Killian. “And it’s definitely possible, although I’d imagine it’d get a little messy with the hook.”  
  
“I’m almost willing to sacrifice the floors of--what is this building, technically?”  
  
“Town hall, Mayor’s office and library,” Mary Margaret answers. There’s a bird on her shoulder now, an open window on the other side of the room and Emma lets her magic calm a little, confident that the lack of blood flow to Isaac’s face has tempered the threat. 

At least for the time being. 

That will, eventually, be a mistake, but her biggest one was definitely getting out of bed and, in the moment, Emma is something almost resembling confident. 

Killian’s hand and hook move back to her hips. 

“They’re really fascinating books,” Belle adds, not lifting her gaze up when she’s started reading again. “Seriously a bandersnatch? Like straight out of Wonderland.”  
  
“Straight out,” Killian promises.  
  
“That is nuts.”  
  
“You’re nerding out over this, aren’t you?”  
  
“Obviously.”

Killian grins, letting his cheek rest on the top of Emma’s hair and whatever noise David makes is kind of funny and kind of absurd and--”Rubes, are you seriously not going to critique the use of the words _nerding out_ here?”  
  
Ruby opens her mouth – presumably to respond with something equally snarky, but that mistake has come back to bite them all on a variety of different magical body parts and they should not have gotten out of bed. 

Like ever. 

Isaac lunges and Regina can’t react quickly enough, a yelp of pain from Mary Margaret when the pen slices at her hand again. Her knees buckle, David jumping forward to pull her against his chest and Emma briefly wonders where the paper is.  
  
He’s not writing on paper. 

He’s writing on the floor. 

In blood. 

“Oh God damn,” she hisses, but the words are barely past her lips before everything starts to shake. She’s got to learn more about building foundations if they’re going to keep doing this. 

And it happens quickly, Isaac’s arm moving impossibly quick, more magic that Emma resents and Killian’s arm tight around her waist, like he’s absolutely terrified of what will happen if he doesn’t keep her pressed to him. He’s mumbling words in her ear, but she can only make out a few of them and they’re all so...desperate and worse, quiet pleas to what may be a few more mythical beings and Emma blinks and the floor under her is different. 

“What the hell,” Will gasps, head on a swivel and that’s an understandable reaction. They’re not in Storybrooke. 

“Holy shit,” Emma breathes. She tilts her head up, trying to take in the surroundings without passing out and it’s a close call, but she assumes the familiarity of the throne room helps and she’s not wearing jeans anymore. 

She’s wearing the pants she had been. Before. The last time she was in Misthaven. 

They’re in Misthaven. 

“Got you, didn’t I?” Isaac laughs, drops of Mary Margaret’s blood still falling from the end of his pen. And she’s not sure who moves first then, but it is, very likely, David and if Emma weren’t drifting close to the precipice of another complete breakdown in that stupid, awful throne room, she’d lord it over him for the rest of his life. 

He crosses the room in three steps, arm pulling back and fist colliding with Isaac’s face, a crumpled body at his feet and the pen rolling towards his boots. 

He’s wearing boots. There’s a sword strapped on his hip. 

_They’re in Misthaven_. 

“Asshole,” David growls, ducking down to snap the pen in his hand and the magic that rushes out of it makes Emma’s skin explode into goosebumps. 

She leans against Killian’s on instinct, relishing the feel of his lips on the side of her neck and her fingers reach back, searing blindly for his hook. David kicks Isaac. 

And the silence returns, stunned and tense and not at all what they planned, particularly with two new inhabitants joining them, but there’s a roar of voices outside the castle window and he must have brought all of Storybrooke back. 

Ruby slides down the nearest wall, expression turning almost amused when she runs her hand over her face. “Well,” she says, “there’s no place like home, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of stuff's still going to happen. Seriously, thanks for reading said stuff. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	17. Chapter 17

She misses the jacket. 

It’s a ridiculous thing to miss, and far from the only thing, but Emma’s mind keeps drifting back to the jacket and the cut and how strange it is to keep thinking about the length of a goddamn leather jacket. 

Because, all things considered, they’ve got much bigger things to deal with. 

They’ve barely been back in Misthaven for two weeks and every day seems to bring some brand-new and increasingly difficult challenge because they’ve barely been back for two weeks but they were gone for _years_ and people were left behind and King Arthur is, apparently, the biggest dick in a variety of different realms. 

The first news of an attack came, approximately, four hours after they left the throne room. 

Which, really, did not seem like enough time at all, but Emma figures the universe is just testing them all now and she can’t figure out how any of them are staying upright at this point. 

They all must be averaging four hours of sleep a night. 

Killian’s averaging, like, two. 

She catches him, sometimes, staring out the window or the ceiling, wide eyes and slightly labored breathing, fingers tracing over her side like he’s trying to brand every inch of her. 

With him. 

Or something less dramatic.

But Emma gets nightmares too, clinging to sheets and Killian in equal measure until she has to apologize for the nail-shaped marks she leaves in his skin. 

He never seems to mind. 

And it’s not just Arthur. The problems come from every angle, a non-stop stream of political messes that have quickly turned to political fires. DunBroch has sent missives, demands to know _what your intentions are now that you’ve returned_ , and Emma can’t really remember Ella and Thomas, but they’d sent an actual envoy who wanted _an audience with her highness_ , an announcement that made Ruby cackle and Regina groan and there’d been a stack of signed papers in the man’s hands when he left. 

There were whispers out of Arendelle, Elsa leaving almost as soon as they returned, and Emma doesn’t even want to think about what Midas has done because she doesn’t want to think about _that field_ and none of the people they’d left behind seem all that inclined to celebrate their return.

Because there aren’t borders anymore, so much as there are burned down tree lines and empty fields, houses with broken windows and empty beds, signs of a fight that was lost long ago and Emma’s magic will not stop. It is, she imagines, because she keeps teleporting them places, a flash of smoke and feet that land with practiced ease now, bouncing between the throne room in Misthaven and the council chambers in Camelot, David’s voice getting more and more exasperated each time they leave without an agreement. 

“You disappeared,” Arthur says, voice even and almost cool, as if cursing themselves is more than enough reason to launch a full-scale invasion. “And then even more people were gone. I’m afraid that left Misthaven ripe for the--”  
  
“--Oh my God, do not finish that sentence,” Emma grumbles. David can’t quite mask his laugh, lips tugged behind his teeth and eyes staring into the small bit of marble under his feet. 

Arthur’s castle, it appears, is entirely made of marble. 

She can hear Killian’s sharp inhale behind her, never more than a few feet away. Not that Emma is, particularly, opposed to that. 

Because it hasn’t even been two weeks since they’ve returned to Misthaven and things aren’t right and Arthur must have practiced that look of self-satisfied superiority at some point. 

Emma may break every mirror in his stupid, marble castle. 

And then shorten the length of Killian’s jacket. 

It’s not right. 

They’re not right. 

They’re walking on eggshells and tiptoeing around each other – because he knows _she_ knows, a weird, convoluted sentence that’s probably a fairly good descriptor for their lives now and his fingers keep fluttering at his side, reaching for something that isn’t there anymore. 

He hates his new sword. 

She knows it. She knows he knows she knows it. 

Arthur is talking again. 

“I’m afraid being a ruler does, in fact, require said ruler to rule his kingdom.”  
  
Emma can _hear_ David’s eye roll. “We have explained that,” he growls. “And, you know, not to belabor our point here, but not only are you invading a kingdom you were allied to--”  
  
“--No, no, no,” Arthur cuts in quickly, waving a quick hand through the air. Emma’s fingers curl around Killian’s hook. “That treaty is null and void when you disappear, your highness.”  
  
"That’s not how diplomacy works!”  
  
“David,” Emma chastises, but she tends to agree and if she’s been thinking about the length of leather jackets for nearly two weeks, then she’s been thinking about that scene on the farm outside of the town for just as long. The smoke still stings her nose every now and then, a rush of guilt and hint of pain, as if the loss had seared itself into her soul as well, making her whole body tremble and--

“You’ve got to breathe, love,” Killian mumbles. He turns slightly, not pulling his left arm away from her, but making it easier to rest his hand on her shoulder and maybe this is why Arthur is such a monumental dick. 

It’s easy to reject treaties from a group of anxious royals all dealing with various and specific forms of post traumatic stress disorder. 

Emma nods, jerky and less-than-impressive, particularly when she’s supposed to be some kind of ambassador, but one side of Killian’s mouth tugs up anyway. She wonders if she can get Regina to just...burn down a castle of marble. She wonders what the melting point of marble is. 

Arthur’s expression hasn’t changed. “Shall we rehash, your highness? It only seems to be upsetting you.”  
  
“Fucking hell,” David grumbles, drawing another less-than-appropriate laugh out of Emma. She lets her head fall forward, a quick movement that she hopes is Killian’s lips ghosting over the top of her hair. 

He definitely squeezes her shoulder. 

They are honestly all disaster royals. 

David takes a deep breath, running his hand over his face. Emma can see the exact moment he shifts, moving out of several negative emotions and diving directly into the deep end of _determined_ and it, at least, makes Arthur’s eyebrows jump slightly. 

“Ok,” David starts. “We were gone. We aren’t gone anymore. Obviously.”  
  
“He should have practiced this more,” Killian whispers in Emma’s ear. She has to bite her lip. 

“You want to rehash, your majesty?” David continues, and _that_ question is almost dripping with sarcasm. Emma figures that’s fair. She lifts her head up. “Fine, we can rehash. We’ve been lied to. From the very start. All of us. Tricked by George and the Dark One and lulled into a prophecy that was misleading from the very beginning--”  
  
“--That can’t possibly be--”  
  
“Oh no, no,” David cuts in, a quick head shake. “No interruptions right now. The prophecy wasn’t wrong, but the explanation was. It twisted everything and made it impossible to do anything except our goddamn best, which is exactly what we did, Arthur. And we’re not looking for sympathy or pity or anything except for you to stop being a goddamn, fucking bastard and get out of our kingdom.”

Arthur’s eyebrows get higher. 

That’s the only response. 

Emma has no idea where to look. Her eyes flit from face to face and ostentatious marble tile to even more ridiculous marble wall decor, but, eventually, her gaze lands on Killian’s and that’s nice. That’s, almost, normal. 

None of this is normal. 

Gods, she misses real coffee too. 

“Had me right up until the end,” Killian murmurs, and Emma can’t help her laugh. It’s soft and, maybe, a little skeptical, like she’s not entirely sure if that’s the sound she’s supposed to be making. He definitely kisses her hair that time. 

She smiles, reaching up to tug lightly on the lapels of a jacket, she hopes, she could, maybe get used to. Again. Because it’s not new. None of this is, but it feels impossibly unfamiliar and just, generically, impossible and Emma really thought they were done with all the allusions to Camelot after she slayed the goddamn dragon. 

She really has no idea what happened to Rumplestilskin. 

“Oh shut up,” David groans, Killian scoffing and pulling Emma back to his side. Arthur’s face is going to get stuck like that. 

It’d serve him right. 

“What exactly is it you hope to get from this, your majesty?” Emma asks, fully anticipating the way Killian’s hand tightens around her shoulders and David’s lips quirk and Arthur is frozen. 

She lets her smile widen. 

“Anything? Because I quite figure it out. Why keep doing this when--” She twists her head, fluttering her fingers and the ball of light that appears there bounces in a rhythm that she’s actually almost impressed by. Emma doesn’t look at Killian. She doesn’t have to. 

He’s totally smiling. 

Until. 

“It’s exactly because of that,” Arthur says, low and still frustratingly even, as if the conversation hasn’t caused him any emotional distress at all. There’s something, though. Something that wasn’t there a moment before. And it’s not fear. Or pity. Or anything except--

“You’re defending yourself,” Emma breathes, understanding rushing through her and making her magic surge. Killian’s hand turns into a vice. 

She can’t quite hide her hiss of pain, another sound Emma regrets as as soon as she makes it. And she doesn’t know enough words to describe the look that lands on Killian’s face when he’s realized what he’s done, something almost akin to _shattering_ settling on his features, making Emma’s chest ache and her magic sputter and David coughs pointedly. 

Like that will make this more diplomatic. 

“What could you be protecting yourself from?” David presses. His hand lands on his sword hilt, a belt Emma doesn’t think he’s taken off since they got back. 

Arthur actually has the gall to look surprised. “What? No, no, no, it’s not a what, your highness. It’s a who.”  
  
“We’re not a threat to you, Arthur,” Emma sneers. Her magic is back. Loud. And disorienting. It makes her vision go blurry and her breath hitch, parted lips and, what she hopes, is the world’s most potent glare on her face. 

“I don’t think that’s true.”  
  
“That’s ridiculous! It’s--I mean, it’s shit, isn’t?” She gapes at David, his lips twisted into a near-agreement and almost-condemnation because they are _so bad_ at this and Emma didn’t expect it to be so difficult to figure out how to put the pieces of their lives back together. 

She’s really annoyed by her mind’s continued use of puzzle metaphors. 

“We defeated the darkness,” Emma continues, taking a step forward. Or, at least, trying. Killian doesn’t let go of her shoulder, a quick flinch and rock forward and that’s been happening too. 

He doesn’t like her not being there. 

Arthur clicks his tongue, another expression Emma resents. He slumps slightly in his throne, more than a few jewels in the back and his own sword strapped to his side. It’s not Excalibur. There is no Excalibur. 

Not anymore. 

Gods, that’s so strange. 

“So you claim,” Arthur says, eyes going thin and gaze turning penetrating. “But the prince is right. No matter what George had been doing or working for, he did bring you all together. Magic. Power. And--” He nods in Killian’s direction, the muscles in his throat shifting when he swallows. “That.”  
  
Emma has no explanation for what her body does. It doesn’t feel particularly human or comfortable, like a rather large slab of wood had been pressed to her and forced her to realign her spine. 

Or she’s been placed between two marble slabs. 

Everything feels heavy, like the air itself is reacting and it only takes Emma a moment to realize...it might be. Her magic flares, a burst of light from the tips of her fingers and another orb lingering around the shoulder Killian’s still got his fingers on and she tries to count. 

“Three in, five out, three in, five out,” Emma mumbles, a bit of her light reflecting off the sword David’s half-drawn. 

“Try six out, love.”  
  
She can’t actually bring herself to glare at Killian – not when the bags under his eyes are so obvious and the jacket doesn’t look right and they’ve got to find him another sword, but Emma looks and his smile is forced. 

Like he’s in pain too. 

“God, that’s so long,” Emma mutters. “Who could exhale for that long?”  
  
“It might work.”  
  
“I really think that’s impossible.” Killian’s smile shifts, still not perfect, but definitely getting there and Emma does, in fact, breathe a bit easier when his hook falls to her hip. She turns back to Arthur. “What did you mean? Exactly?”  
  
“Was that not obvious?”  
  
“Let’s not go in circles, your majesty,” Emma hisses. “You’re right. And so was David. We were gone. And we’re not going to shirk blame for any of the things we’ve done. We are here to accept them and fix them and help rebuild this kingdom. We’re not looking to take over anything. That’s--fuck, that is honestly the last thing we want. We don’t need anymore responsibility than we already have.”  
  
“Not helping,” David murmurs. 

Emma flips him off. They are a picture of mature, royal, responsibility. “I really could not care less,” Emma promises. “You attacked us, Arthur. Everyone did. We--ok, you’re scared of our magic? Fine. What do I need to do to fix that?”  
  
He doesn’t answer immediately, which is only kind of annoying, but Emma expects just about everything to be annoying at this point and--

“What about him?”  
  
That is not the answer Emma thinks she’s going to get. Because it’s not an answer. It’s a question. And one directed at Killian. 

He stiffens next to her, tongue darting between his lips when he rocks his weight between his heels. “What about me?”

“You’re quite the enigma aren’t you, Captain?” Arthur drawls, the calm forced now. A muscle in his temple keeps jumping. “We’ve heard the rumors. Of you. What you’ve done. And then, well of course, what you couldn’t own up to doing. Are they true?”  
  
“You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid.”  
  
“You know. Camelot is landlocked. Not often we hear things from other realms separated by a sea, but--every now and then, there’s some news and a few murmurs and the man was very talkative once he got a few ales in him. And a slightly heavier pocket.”  
  
Killian tilts his head, and Emma isn’t sure if the thump she hears is her heart or his. The jacket, suddenly, looks a little more menacing, fluttering at his ankles when he takes a step forward, the light of her magic bouncing off the curve of his hook and his fingers drifting towards his sword. 

Arthur presses his lips together. 

“A name, your majesty.”  
  
“No, no, no, I also know how diplomacy works, pirate,” Arthur says. “And I know I’ve got leverage now. The question is, do you? And was the man speaking the truth?”  
  
“Babe,” Emma mutters. Killian freezes. “What is he talking about?”

“I don’t know.”  
  
She makes a contrary noise in the back of her throat, more _wrong_ that they probably should have discussed before, but there hasn’t been time and Emma just wants some time. She wants quiet. And peace. 

She wants her heart to calm the fuck down. 

Killian glances at her, a smirk and a flash in his eyes because he probably can’t hear her heart, but it would almost make sense at this point. Her magic, on the other hand. “That bad, huh?”  
  
“Worse,” Emma promises.

He chuckles, a loud exhale when he pulls his hand away from his sword. “He thinks I’ve still got magic,” Killian says, and Arthur nearly falls out of his throne. 

That would have been funny.  
  
It probably shouldn’t be. 

David’s eyes bug, lips parting with a pop and he’s got his sword out. Diplomacy, it seems, has been cast to the wayside. “What?” he balks. “How--how would he even know? I thought you said no one knew.”  
  
“Rumplestilskin did,” Killian shrugs. “And he didn’t leave this realm right after I did. I was in New York for years too.”  
  
“Abandoning your kingdom,” Arthur adds, scoffing when Emma mumbles _seriously, shut the fuck up_ under her breath. 

It is not really under her breath. 

“He didn’t want people to know he’d lost his magic, but…” Killian trails off, another head tilt and look cast Emma’s direction. “I’m sure for the right price or the right deal, it would have been worth it. To know what I’d done. Or where Emma was.”  
  
“And did this man know that?” David looks at Arthur when he asks, all fury and magic and the throne wobbles precariously on its perch. 

Arthur shakes his head. “I don't have to answer that.”  
  
“How long ago was this?” Emma asks, something tugging at the back of her mind. It’s not an idea, not really, isn’t more than a passing thought or half a consideration, but Killian had to get a magic bean somehow and--”What did he look like?”  
  
“At least a year ago.”  
  
“That’s only half the answer.”  
  
“Yes, it is.”  
  
Emma groans, throwing her head back with the force of the noise. Arthur’s throne stops moving. So does he. He tries, makes several gallant attempts to twist and turn, but there are invisible bounds around him and she’s definitely getting better at that. 

She didn’t even have to move her hand. 

“Oh, that was good, Swan,” Killian says, almost sounding genuine. There’s still a bit of perspiration at his temple though, a tiny pinch between his brows. He’s not telling her something. “Brag to Regina about that later because--”

“Is that a threat, Savior?” Arthur asks. 

Emma rolls her eyes. “Are you serious?”  
  
“I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”  
  
“Well, that’s stupid,” Emma says bluntly, David snickering next to her and she can almost feel Killian’s pride push out of him. “Get your knights out of our kingdom, Arthur. It’s not yours. It never was.”  
  
“Or what?”  
  
“Damnit,” David breathes. 

Emma smile stretches the muscles in her face, wholly uncomfortable until there’s a press of metal into the small of her back. She leans into it. “We just want to come home, Arthur. That’s all. We aren’t trying to conquer anything. There’s not magic. There’s no warning. It’s just us and--”  
  
“I want to know the Dark One is gone,” Arthur cuts in sharply. It catches Emma off guard, which is far less impressive than the other magic she’d just done, because this makes her current magic sputter and waver and it’s more than enough time for Arthur to break free of his bonds. His feet slam onto the marble when he jumps up, all chain mail and an actual cloak and the door behind him swings open to let in several heavily armored knights. 

Emma sighs. 

“That’s just unnecessary,” Killian mumbles. 

She doesn’t think. She twists and turns, presses up on her toes and brushes a kiss to his cheek, more stubble and exhaustion she can practically taste. “I love you.”  
  
He doesn’t exhale. Not quite. There are knights moving towards them too quickly for that, swords drawn and pointed directly at his chest. David is grumbling curses, bobbing on the balls of his feet with magic percolating around him and Emma can hardly see past the glare around her. 

It’s her. She’s the glare. Of the magical, variety. 

And they probably should have been better prepared for this. 

But part of her was hopeful and maybe even a little optimistic that they could just fall back into _something_ and _normal_ and--

“So much for signing that treaty now,” Emma mutters. She pushes her hands towards the floor, the surge of power moving from her head to her heels. It’s as if she’s being jumpstarted, the force of it almost enjoyable, if not a little distracting because it really is difficult to see when she’s glowing as much as she is. 

She does hear Arthur’s throne tip over though, so that’s kind of satisfying. 

And it all goes a little pear-shaped after that. 

The knights advance, Arthur shouting commands like he’s actually going to get off the dais and use his stupid sword. David twists his blade in his hands, bending his knees slightly. “Oh, Gods, remind me to make fun of him for that later,” Killian mutters, mirroring Emma’s moves and turning so his back is pressed against hers. 

Covering her six, as it were. 

Or, whatever. 

She needs to stop mixing up idioms from different realms. 

“I can hear you,” David calls, metal clanging on metal. He grunts, far more exercise than they’d anticipated on what may be their fifteenth trip to Camelot at this point. 

Emma is genuinely surprised this is the first time it’s broken down like this. 

She can feel Killian shifting against her, the push of his shoulder blades into her and the edges of that stupid, ridiculous, far too long coat brushing against the back of her calves. She may lean back. She may be exceptionally greedy. 

And only a little worried. 

About a never-ending myriad of things, but mostly him and them and she wants. That’s it, really. She wants. Them and collective pronouns and for it all to be _over_ already, for the rest of everything to begin and she wouldn’t be opposed to more than a few dates. 

Possibly on a pirate ship. 

“That was the point,” Killian says, a smile obvious in the words. He has to lunge to parry a blow from one of the knights, laughter ringing out like this is _fun_ but Emma’s eyes flicker to Arthur when he, finally, moves, sword raised and fear obvious in his gaze. 

He’s terrified. 

Everyone might be terrified.  
  
Of them. 

And their magic. 

And what Killian had done. 

Even without the specifics. Or the rumors of an inebriated, suddenly rich man who found his way to Camelot and started talking. 

She lifts her hand on instinct and the possibility of what could be, that same bit of hope and unusual optimism, a burst of power from her palm and it’s just enough to leave Arthur staggering mid-step. 

“We’re not a threat, Arthur,” Emma says again, only marginally confident he’ll believe her. He doesn’t. She knows it as soon as she closes her mouth. “To you, or anyone. This entire realm. We just--”  
  
“Prove he doesn’t have magic! That he’s not what that pirate said he was.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
Arthur pales, another exaggerated swallow. Emma’s head snaps towards Killian, every inch of her still vibrating with magic and questions, but the knights, apparently, don’t need to wait for orders and his arm flies through the air, the sound of his hook smashing the visor of the man in front of him echoing off the walls. 

Arthur is going to be transparent soon. 

“Fine,” Killian sighs, shaking his hair away from his eyes and his sleeve away from his hook and Emma barely has time to gasp before he does it. He sheaths his sword, a soft _whoosh_ and quick roll of his shoulders and he hardly makes a noise when the point of his hook pierces the skin of his forearm. 

Emma does. Loudly. So does David. 

Killian will probably make fun of them for that. 

“See,” he says, staring straight at Arthur and his suddenly very wobbly knees. He lifts his arm, drops of blood sliding down skin and threatening to stain the shirt underneath it. “Wouldn’t really work if I was still the Dark One, would it?”

Arthur doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. 

Killian does all three. 

“So, you can report back to your little contingent, your majesty because, let’s be honest with ourselves here, you’re leading the charge of the other kingdoms aren’t you?”

That gets Arthur to, at least, blink. 

Emma needs to stop gasping. “Oh, shit,” she mutters, working a soft laugh out of Killian. “You think so?”  
  
“It’s an educated guess, at least.”  
  
“But--” David argues. “That’s...oh, Gods, that makes so much sense. Was it---was there some kind of agreement, Arthur?”  
  
Nothing. Silence. Stretching on for what feels like forever and then an extra day because Arthur really is an enormous dick, but then there’s the clack of boots and a sword scraping across marble when a knight pulls it off the floor and Emma’s reactions are getting very good. 

So are Killian’s. 

His arm is barely more than a blur, but there’s a look on his face that makes Emma’s pulse still for a moment, quiet fury and absolute hatred and he’s half a step in front of her before she realizes what’s happened. 

“Don’t come near her again,” he bites out. 

The sword clatters back to the ground. 

“You know,” David drawls, “maybe we weren’t the ones who were such garbage at diplomacy. It seems kind of stupid, Arthur. This plan of yours. What was it, then? We disappear, half of Misthaven is gone, and you...what? Decide that you’re the best option for overlord of the realm?”  
  
“The once and future king,” Emma intones. Killian’s arm is still bleeding. 

“Sounds better in the book.”  
  
Arthur makes a face of confusion. “What in all hells are you talking about?”  
  
“Just one hell, really,” Killian amends. “And not even that. The Underworld. If you want to get technical.”  
  
“Are you kidding me?” Emma asks, but he just shrugs and smirks and the look is _right_ again. It’s hers again. 

“It’s important to be accurate when dealing with diplomacy, Swan.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
He flashes her another grin, a quick twist of eyebrows that make her mind race and her pulse race and her magic is even more visible, a pulse of light and glimmer of energy that makes the air around them noticeably warmer. 

Emma huffs, but she’s not so much frustrated as she is--every other human emotion. She reaches her hand up slowly, light lingering between her fingers to brush away the hair matted to Killian’s forehead. 

He closes his eyes. 

“Take your knights out of our kingdom, Arthur,” she says, not bothering to look at the king or where, exactly, he’s standing. She hopes he fell over. “Tell the other kingdoms too. We’re not doing anything except coming home.”  
  
“And, maybe trading a bit,” David adds. 

“Seriously?”  
  
He hums when she glares at him. “Diplomacy or whatever.”  
  
“Aye, whatever sounds about right, doesn’t it?” Killian mutters. He hasn’t opened his eyes, head falling forward just enough that his forehead rests against Emma’s. 

She hopes he isn’t still bleeding.

“Arthur,” she continues, a quick kiss to the scar on Killian’s cheek before she turns slightly. “Do we have an agreement? Accord? What do you think works better?”  
  
Killian inhales, head falling even more so he can nuzzle slightly at her neck and that’s probably breaking every rule, but Emma...doesn’t care. Really. “They both sound fairly royal, Swan.”  
  
“I like accord better.”  
  
“More official,” David muses, Killian making a noise of agreement. 

“Fine, fine,” Emma says quickly. “I want your word right now, Arthur. Take the knights out of Misthaven. No more attacks. No more burning farms and destroying homes. It’s not going to make anyone want your rule anymore. They’ll just think you’re the world’s biggest dick.”

“Excuse me?” 

“You’re mixing colloquialisms again, love,” Killian laughs. Emma relishes it. 

She scoffs, letting her fingers find their way back to the front of his jacket so she can tug lightly on the leather that does and doesn’t make sense. Like everything. She’s going to teleport them straight back to her room, get him out of that jacket, make sure he isn’t bleeding anymore and then kiss him until he can’t remember the word colloquialism. 

“You can’t just return here and expect everything to be the way that it was,” Arthur says, sounding like he’s warning them of something. 

“That’s kind of the point.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Sodding idiot,” Killian mutters, fingers seemingly moving of their own accord. David cannot sound disappointed enough.  
  
“Ok, yes, thank you,” he sighs. “But, also--well, you are a complete and utter ass, Arthur. And we are--”  
  
“--Done with diplomacy?” Emma suggests. 

“Well, yeah.”  
  
“What pushed you in that direction, do you think, your highness?” Killian asks, rife with sarcasm. David shakes his head. “The insane king, the knights who, honestly, seem to be acting out of turn or--”

“--You,” David cuts in, and Arthur makes a noise between a gasp and a groan. “And not wanting to see what you’d do if those same knights, who--honestly, control your men Arthur...but, well, you might not have magic anymore, but I can only imagine what you’d do if someone threatened Emma. Or vice versa.”  
  
“That’s awfully melodramatic, don’t you think?”  
  
David shakes his head. “Nope. Threaten the knight guy one more time with your legitimately terrifying threatening face.”  
  
“Legitimately terrifying threatening face,” Emma echoes slowly. 

“You got a better name for it?”  
  
“I mean--I don’t think it’s terrifying.”  
  
“Oh, no,” David groans. “You’re attracted to the face aren’t you?”  
  
Emma blushes, entirely mistimed and likely doing damage to their ability to draft a reasonable treaty that will benefit both kingdoms and ensure Camelot stops trying to actively screw them over, but she can feel Killian’s eyes on the side of her head and--

“I mean…”

Killian laughs, the sound settling in between tension-filled muscles and bones that are heavy with a lack of consistent REM sleep and Emma’s almost thankful for the curse because now she knows what REM sleep is and how important it is to a restful night. 

“I love you too,” Killian says, spinning Emma back towards him so he can brush the back of his knuckles over her jaw and let his fingers fall through the ends of her hair. “Missed that part before. When I was making the attractive faces.”  
  
“You’re doing that smug thing again.”  
  
“And plan on doing it as long as you do, love.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, but she’s charmed and almost calm and still decidedly magical. “Pirate,” she accuses. It’s not really an insult. 

He smirks at her. 

“Alright, well,” David starts, dragging out the words until his discomfort is practically vibrating out of him. “So, uh...we want to, you know, keep the kingdom from being burned down or you guys want to keep staring longingly at each other?”  
  
“Do you not think we’re capable of doing both?” Emma asks. 

And _that_ laugh, oh, _that one_. It’s loud and easy and it flies out of Killian, lands directly in the middle of Emma and warms her from the inside out, a glow and a want and the start of everything she’s been waiting for. 

Her mind is still hanging onto that feeling, though. She wonders. And has questions. And she’s going to get answers. 

Probably after the kissing. 

And definitely after she makes sure his arm is alright. 

“Call back your knights,” Emma says, doing her best to sound official. “Tell DunBroch that we are interested in a peaceful resolution to this. Get used to the fact that Misthaven has magic. But magic that we are--” She glances at David, the ends of his mouth already tugging up into a smile and he gives her a quick nod. “We are more than willing to help with that magic,” Emma continues, “whenever we can, however we can. This is...this isn’t George’s kingdom anymore. No secrets. No murmurs. No rumors of darkness.”

“The darkness is gone. And now there’s the chance to start over. To fix it and try again, to make it better than it was before.”

Arthur stares at her for a moment, Emma’s heart sputtering erratically behind her ribs. She reaches her hand back on instinct. 

And the metal she touches is cool against her fingers. 

“What if I don’t agree?” Arthur asks, drawing several pointed curses out of all three of them. Most of Killian’s are not in English. 

“What more could you want?” he demands. “We’ve given you everything you’ve asked for and--”  
  
“You’re worried about the Darkness?” Emma interrupts, Arthur nodding quickly. “There is no Darkness anymore. Because I killed it. I--” Her voice shakes, tears clouding her vision and grip going tight enough that her knuckles crack. “It’s gone, Arthur. But let me tell you something, you’re harping on something that doesn’t exist anymore and you’ve overlooked one very important thing.”  
  
“Which is?”

“Me. You keep doing this, destroying families and coming after our kingdom, I won’t think. I'll do what I have to do to save them. All of them. Because the Darkness was bad, but guess who destroyed the Darkness?”

She holds her hand out, David’s fingers curling around her wrist and her nails dig into her palm where its wrapped around Killian’s hook, eyes falling closed as the magic roars in her ears. 

They don’t land in her room. 

That’s probably for the best with David with them. 

Until. 

As per usual. 

The book flies at them, a flap of pages the only warning before Emma’s hands are moving and she’s got less control, in that moment, than she did when she was seven and freezing. 

The book disappears.

“Oh damn,” she mumbles, Killian crowding into her space with his sword brandished in front of them. “Shit, don’t tell Regina about that one. That wasn’t as impressive.”  
  
He must smile because Emma is fairly certain she can feel it through her hair when he ducks his head to kiss her temple, but she doesn’t have much time to focus on that because Will is groaning and Belle is apologizing, presumably for throwing a book at them and--

“What are you two doing in here?” David asks, glancing around the room that is, quite obviously, the library. On the direct opposite side of the castle from Emma’s room. 

She clicks her tongue. “Seriously, that did not work the way I wanted it to at all.”

“Do you want the real answer or the answer we’d rather give you?” Will asks. He’s got his feet propped up on the edge of the table in front of him, balancing on the back two legs of the chair he’s sitting in. 

Emma waves her hands again. So he doesn’t fall over. 

Top notch Savior, doing top notch saving-type things. 

Will grins. “Thanks. For that, I’ll give you the real answer, even though it’s embarrassing--”  
  
“--We’re hiding from Regina,” Belle cuts in, Emma’s eyes widening and she’s glad she did the chair thing. Will rolls his whole head when he groans. “She is currently, upstairs, throwing fire balls at inanimate objects because that person from--does Rapunzel’s kingdom actually have a name? I just keep thinking of the movies.” 

“Seriously, you can’t keep ruining the punchlines to these jokes if you’re just going to present facts to the sovereigns--”

The door swings open again, more footsteps and more groans and there is not enough room for all of them in this rather limited amount of space. 

“Goddamn, idiotic, pedantic...jerks,” Mary Margaret grumbles, Ruby half a step behind her and barely containing her laugh. Her smile, however, is a different story, wide and only a little mocking and a hint wolfish and David reaches to draw his sword. 

“What are you possibly trying to accomplish with that?” Emma asks. “And, honestly, babe, you can put yours away too.”

“Is that a euphemism?” Will asks, and Ruby immediately starts to cackle. 

Mary Margaret doesn’t seem to notice any of them. “Grew up in a goddamn forest, light a stupid candle, idiots.”  
  
“M”s,” Emma wavers, pushing lightly on the hilt of Killian’s sword. He kisses her again before he, finally, sheathes it. It makes that noise again. “What are you saying right now? And why are you guys in here too?”  
  
“Oh, this is our meeting place,” Ruby says, as if it’s obvious. 

“For?”  
  
“Whining,” Will answers. “Grousing. What’s another word for this, babe?”  
  
Belle twists her lips, tilting her head back and forth in thought. “Bemoaning. Lamenting. Bellyaching, but that one is more slang than anything else.”

“Shouldn’t count then,” Killian mutters.  
  
“Yeah, well, you haven’t been here, so…”  
  
“Although we’re not opposed to you being here,” Mary Margaret adds, a quick return to the conversation that comes with only minimal sighing. “And sorry, for all the--” She waves her hands dramatically, shaking her hair off her shoulders. “We got a call from some of the dwarves, you know the ones who live over by the DunBroch border and they thought they were being attacked, but it was--”  
  
“--A rather large infestation of rabbits,” Ruby mumbles.

Emma’s eyes bug without her explicit permission. “Oh my God.”  
  
“Yeah, those were basically our thoughts too.”  
  
“But,” Mary Margaret adds, “then the whole thing dissolved into a criticism of our ruling tendencies, my inability to provide electricity and some rather pointed suggestions that we were doing a fairly bad job of...what was the world they used, Rubes?” 

“Transitioning.”

“Oh, yeah, I hated that, honestly.”

Emma’s sigh falls out of her, all disappointment and wobbly knees and the certainty that she’s missing something. Big. “There’s got to be some kind of balance, right?”

She isn’t really waiting for an answer, was more asking the question rhetorically, but the rather resounding silence she gets is, admittedly, a little disappointing. She sighs again. “What I’m saying is...I mean, at the risk of giving Arthur any credit at all--”  
  
“--Oh, yeah, yeah, what happened with Arthur?” Ruby asks, a smile when Emma rolls her eyes at the interruption. “You weren’t trying to get to this room were you?”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“Ah, that might be an answer.”  
  
“I think we almost saved the whole thing, really,” David says, only sort of sounding like he’s lying. Ruby lifts her eyebrows.

“Killian,” Mary Margaret says, crouching lightly to push up the sleeve of his jacket. There’s red staining the fabric of his shirt. “Were you bleeding?”  
  
“The past tense there is important,” he mutters. Will may gag. “And I’m fine. It’s..it’s fine.”  
  
“Once more with feeling, Captain,” Belle says, one eyebrow arched and her lips twisted into complete disbelief. 

“Arthur is terrified of Emma. We’re all saved.”  
  
“That only sounded kind of bitter,” Emma mumbles, but she never actually let go of his hook and the ring around her neck has fallen over the front of her dress. “Anyway, what I’m saying is that, Arthur is a dick, but we’re fairly positive we can get him to call off the attacks and he did bring up a good point.”  
  
David hums in confusion. “When? Before or after the knights attacked us?”

That gets a response – mostly just shouts of varying volume and slightly bugged eyes, and Killian’s tongue moves back between his lips, pressing to the corner of his mouth with an almost obvious impatience. 

“Can I make my point, please?” Emma cries, close to pleading. Killian rests his head on top of hers, a deep breath that shudders through him and they’re a mess of wholly uncomfortable limbs, but it’s also kind of grounding and they never did much understand the concept of personal space. 

It’s probably a magic thing. 

“Your highness,” he mutters. She resists the urge to elbow him. That’s less romantic than the magic thing. 

“We’re all fucked aren’t we?”  
  
“This is not your best work, Em,” Ruby admits, dropping onto the edge of Belle’s seat. 

“You’re being impatient, that’s why. I’m--ok, well, we didn’t know who we were, but we were still us then, right?”  
  
“When we were cursed?” Mary Margaret asks. 

Emma nods. “Yeah, exactly. What I’m saying is those people were us. Same personalities, for the most part, and I mean--we lived those lives. Those memories happened, even if the stuff before we got to Storybrooke was skewed. I hate to say it, but Arthur, and maybe even these dwarves are right. We’ve been trying to just settle back into what we were before the curse, but that was all George too and--”  
  
“--There’s got to be a balance, for us to be both, all at the same time,” David whispers, repeating her words and interrupting her speech and, for the first time, Emma doesn’t mind. 

Much. 

“Yeah,” she agrees. “We lived that. We miss electricity. And good coffee. Gods, we miss good coffee.” There are a few quiet laughs and murmured agreements, another kiss to her temple as Killian’s hand, somehow, finds its way to her hip. So he can squeeze it lightly. “We’ve got people we totally screwed who are going to hate us. But I wasn’t lying before. This is a chance for us. To do better. To...to start over, with the magic and the--”

“--Oh say True Love, say it,” Will laughs. 

Emma clicks her tongue. His smile widens. “You’re no help at all. And I--if I ask you if you’re doing alright, based mostly on your defense techniques are you going to give me some snarky comment in response.”  
  
“Yes, absolutely.”  
  
“And,” Belle adds, shifting so she has to sling her arm around Ruby’s shoulders to make sure they don’t both fall on the floor, “that was mostly instinct. Regina did offer to get us weapons.”  
  
“Ten thousand doubloons she didn’t want to chance offending the books with steel,” Killian says, some of the anxious energy in the air disappearing. 

It makes it easier to breathe. 

Emma still wants to know about the pirate in Camelot. And what _he_ knew. 

“What do you think the conversion of doubloons to dollars is?” Mary Margaret asks. “Like ballpark it for me.”  
  
“I’ll have to get back to you on that, your highness.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s too much math for now.”  
  
Emma laughs, an ease to it that’s nearly comforting. More so when she curls herself into Killian’s side, cheek pressed against leather. “This isn’t going to be easy, but--”  
  
“--It’s a chance to start over,” David finishes. “For the better.”  
  
“Exactly. And maybe someone can tell me what happened to Rumplestilskin.”  
  
Will blinks. “Do you not know?”  
  
“No,” Killian says, soft, but with a fierceness that’s more memory and more past mistakes and--

“I punched him,” Belle answers. “Several times. And then, um...after--well, you know after--” She shakes her head, not bothering to brush away the tears on her cheeks. “It was bad and Ruby was trying to take care of Emma and, well...you know, he tried to run, probably go find some of the people he brought with him or Isaac. Where is Isaac?”  
  
“We have too many enemies,” Ruby says.

David glares at her. “In a cell without a key. Keep going Belle.”

“Right, right,” she stammers. “Well, we had some time, after. And so we got him up and there was still magic on him. He couldn’t really move and he was--he realized he’d lost, I think, rather quickly and it was pretty easy after that. There were police eventually. A huge thing like that, there had to be some kind of explanation and we didn’t really give it to them, but we told them that we saw him outside Grand Central around that time...raving and shouting and that was pretty much true and uh--” Belle clicks her teeth, grimacing slightly. “--We got a call that he was going to be indicted on criminal mischief, which seems really low, but…”

She doesn’t finish. And Emma can barely keep her footing when Killian moves, but then there are more limbs in their pretzel and he’s mumbling against Belle’s hair, quiet thanks and even softer promises and she sniffles very loudly. 

“We left before they could ask us to testify or anything stupid official like that.”  
  
“Stupid official, huh?” Killian asks. 

“Yeah, exactly that.”

“So, we’ll take, like, several million doubloons,” Will grins “However that converts.”  
  
Killian laughs, pulling back with Emma still pinned against his side. “There are taverns here, you know.”  
  
“Are you trying to get me a job?”  
  
“At least make you productive.”  
  
“Ah, that’s probably fair. Don’t try and get Belle out of this library though. She’s totally geeking out about some of these maps.”  
  
“I told you that in confidence,” Belle cries, but Will shrugs and Emma starts to let herself hope again. Maybe this will be alright. Maybe this will be the new normal. 

“Yeah, well, stop blowing my jokes up and then we’ll talk.”

Regina finds them eventually – “It wasn’t really that bad, you didn’t have to run down here.” “You set the curtains on fire, Regina.” – more discussions of Camelot and treaties and maybe meeting with some of the non-magical folk who didn’t make either trip to the Land Without Magic. And it’s good. Great, even. Productive and positive and some other word with a similar start, but Emma’s whole body feels like it’s sagging by the time she crawls into bed. 

She doesn’t want to fall asleep, but Killian is still going over maps and boundary lines and David had several ideas about _possible trade routes_ and her eyes must close, because they snap open when the door does, moonlight streaming through her window and his coat is a soft thud on the back of the chair when he shrugs out of it. 

“Go back to sleep, love,” Killian says, moving towards the bed and his lips quirk when she tries to shake her head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”  
  
“Yeah, but I think you’re kind of into it.”  
  
“That’s very true.”  
  
“Oh, very, huh?”  
  
“Incredibly? Intensely? Incessantly?”  
  
“Those last two don’t seem very positive,” Emma points out, propping her head on her hand. She shifts back, giving him a few inches on the far too large bed and it only takes a moment for him to get out of his boots and next to her, barely any space between them. Emma should, really, start thinking more, but it’s been a _day_ and nearly two weeks and _several years_ and she flips on her back with something that may be instinct, letting Killian curl against her with his head on her stomach and her fingers in his hair. 

His breath is warm against her skin when he exhales. 

“I would have done it,” he says eventually, voice snapping through the silence of the room. Emma doesn’t stop her fingers. She knows what he’s talking about. “Arthur, I mean. And his knights. Whatever--any of it. I would have--” He moves his arm, wrapping it around her middle, like he’s trying to keep her there or make sure he stays there, the specifics not important. “I wouldn’t have even given it a second thought.”  
  
“That’s probably not supposed to be romantic, huh?”  
  
Killian barks out a noise that is likely supposed to be a laugh, a kiss pressed to the top of Emma’s thigh because she’d never actually pulled the blankets up. “No, probably not.”  
  
“Weird.”  
  
“Aye, the weirdest.”  
  
“You want to tell me the truth now?”  
  
He tilts his head up, blue eyes and a stare that Emma has always been sure can read her mind and know her thoughts and neither one of those things should be particularly romantic either. And yet here they are. 

There are goosebumps on the back of his neck. 

“About?”  
  
“Oh, don’t play coy, Lieutenant, it’s not cute,” Emma mutters. “A pirate in Camelot? Talking about your magic. What would you have needed with another pirate?”  
  
Killian hisses in a breath, a look that isn’t quite nervous, but might be a hint apprehensive, as if he’s worried about Emma’s reaction. “You knew him, actually,” he whispers. “He’d only remember your reputation. You made sure of that.”  
  
It takes her, approximately, five and a half seconds to realize. 

“Teach? Edward Teach?”  
  
“One and the same.”  
  
“A pirate? Seriously?”  
  
“Seriously,” Killian repeats. “Rather notorious one, in fact. I believe he left the occupation of ruining young boys’ lives a few years after I got my commission. Liam and I had heard tell of him, although I didn’t realize who he was at first. Changed his name, you see.”  
  
“You’re dragging this out on purpose.”  
  
“I’m trying to keep my audience rapt.”  
  
“Did you miss the part where I’m pretty into your face? Because I feel like that’s enough to get me to keep listening.”  
  
“Simply content to stare then, ma’am?”  
  
He does something ridiculous with his eyebrows when he says it, the tip of his tongue wholly distracting pressed to the inside of his cheek. Emma can actually feel herself blush. She kind of wishes she’d pulled the blankets up.

She feels more than a little exposed. 

“What did you need Edward Teach for?”  
  
Killian swallows. “Because,” he says slowly, dragging the words against the curve of Emma’s hip and the top of her thigh and it’s another attempt at distraction that would probably work if she weren’t so goddamn stubborn. “Edward Teach became Blackbeard and Blackbeard stole a magic bean from a giant.”  
  
Emma tenses. Her whole body goes taut, far too many thoughts and even more feelings, a spark of magic and flush of how ridiculously attracted she is to his face and the feel of him next to her and she wants, wants, _wants_. She--

“There’s more to this,” Emma mutters, another quasi accusation. 

“Aye, there is. But it’s not important.”  
  
“Nope, try again.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“Killian.”  
  
He sighs, not put-upon, but mostly disappointed, hooded eyes when he glances up at her. Emma lifts her brows. And exhales for six seconds straight. “I, uh---I couldn’t find anything to get to you, Swan. I knew where you were and--”  
  
“--How?”  
  
“Hmmm?”  
  
“How did you know?” Emma asks. “You said you found out. Before. But...how?”  
  
“A mermaid.”  
  
Emma blinks. She opens her mouth. And blinks again. There are noises coming out of her, but they’re not quite words and Killian’s expression is equal parts obnoxious and a little repentant. “That’s an entirely different and far too long story,” he says. “But, the short of it is that mermaids can travel between realms. That’s--the magic is incredible, Swan. I was always trying to get back, even if the Darkness didn’t want me to, but then--well, I found out what Rumplestiltskin was going to do and--”  
  
He shrugs, far too self deprecating and maybe a little self loathing and Emma can’t kiss him. That’s disappointing. “I wasn’t sure where you’d gone, Swan. Didn't know how to get there, but...Ariel, well she could. Without a curse or a bean or a bloody magic hat. She found you. Or, well, the idea of you. She found a town near the coast with more magic than she’d seen in one place in years. And I knew. That was you. But I couldn’t get there with her.”  
  
“No gills, huh?” Emma jokes. It doesn’t land. She didn’t expect it to.  
  
Killian shakes his head. “Not quite. So we started looking for other options and, eventually, that led us to Blackbeard.”  
  
“And you...what? Took the bean from him? Was there--I mean, did you...magic?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Emma has no right to be annoyed. She knows. She knows he hasn’t been sleeping and there are mermaids involved in this now, more magic and memories she wasn’t a part of and she wants to fix it. She wants to--

“Holy shit,” she breathes, Killian kissing the first patch of skin his lips land on. Her whole body shakes underneath him. 

The room is spinning. 

“Killian, how did you get a magic bean from Edward Teach?”  
  
“It was relatively easy, actually,” he says, and she’d almost believe that if it weren’t for the muscle in his jaw that jumps on every other letter. “Teach was always a greedy bastard. And he thought the bean was dead anyway, no chance of revival, but--”  
  
“--How?”  
  
He smiles at her. His eyes are glossy. “More than willing to make a trade. And I--the Darkness didn’t want it, wanted me to rip his throat out or, even better, his heart. Get him to give me his ship for a whole goddamn fleet, but I...I couldn’t. Not if I was going to find you, Swan. I was--it had to at least be a little honorable.”  
  
“How?”

The word barely squeaks its way out of her, because, really, she already knows the answer.

“He wanted a trade,” Killian says, smile barely that. “And I had the perfect thing to barter. The Jolly Roger.”

She’s not crying. That’s surprising. She’s too busy trying to keep breathing though, vision going spotty and Killian staring at her like he’s waiting for the cracks to form and the darkness to creep back in and she knows that too, knows that the sleepless nights and hours spent staring at the ceiling have been because of just that, fears of what’s been and could be and--

“You traded your ship for me?”  
  
He nods slowly. “Aye.”  
  
And it all happens in a blur. Emma tugs on his shirt and settles further into the pillows under her, the heavy feel of him on top of her a welcome weight, particularly when she arches her back and she can’t move her head quickly enough. 

She can’t kiss him quickly enough. 

She twists her neck, trying to _prove something_ , bruising and needy and _exhilarating_ because this is new and not and Killian groans into her mouth when Emma hooks her leg around his. She swipes her tongue across his lip, another sound that brands itself on her memory and Emma isn’t sure if the room is actually spinning or that’s just her soul, but it’s good and wonderful and _everything_ and he pulls back slightly, staring with something almost resembling awe. 

As if she’s the one who traded her ship for him. 

He smiles. 

And it’s not wholly different from the thousands of smiles she’s seen before, a quirk of his lips and the way his cheeks shift, soft crinkles around his eyes, but, somehow, it’s completely new and entirely better, something almost settling about it, like they’re falling back together or finding each other again and it’s _every single time_ in one expression. 

Killian’s thumb brushes over her cheek, fingers pushing into her hair and then the smile is gone, replaced with _want_ and that same need and it makes Emma’s heart jump, a swell of feeling and magic in equal measure. 

He may mumble _I love you_ before his lips find hers again. 

She may mumble _always_ in return. 

And it feels like it lasts forever, but couldn’t possibly be enough time, a moment Emma wants to stretch on because if this is what forever feels like, then she’ll embrace it with open arms. So, really, she’s not sure what compels her to say the next few words, just knows that she has to and she didn’t trade her ship for a magic bean, but she’ll be damned if he did. 

Because they’ve got to be both. The past and the present and curses several times over, a pirate and a princess who never really wanted either title.

So. 

“We’re getting it back,” Emma mutters, against Killian’s mouth and she can’t help whatever her hips do when he hums in response. “Your ship. That’s...we’re getting it back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	18. Chapter 18

“Is this going to work?”  
  
“Swan, this was your idea, love.”

She clicks her tongue, but he’s definitely got a point and she’s still not entirely convinced it’s going to work. She’s also not entirely convinced it’s an appropriate time for any human being to be awake, but there hadn’t really been much sleeping the night before, quiet discussions and a loose stone in her floor that Emma hadn’t known was there. 

With treasure underneath. 

At least some treasure. 

Of the magical communication variety. 

“That doesn’t sound particularly enthusiastic,” Killian says, standing on the edge of the dock with the first hints of sunlight starting to peek over the clouds. Emma stifles a yawn. “We don’t have to do this. I don’t even know if she’ll--”  
  
“--No, no, c’mon,” Emma cuts in, because this is not the first time he’s tried to get out of the plan. It’s a good plan. It is, at least, a possibly feasible plan. 

Because he’d kept treasure in her bedroom, which Emma can’t possibly think about for too long, and Killian has promised, several times, that the rather large shell in his hand is more than capable of finding Ariel. 

The mermaid. 

They’re trying to find a mermaid. 

Emma takes another step forward, moving into his space and resting a hand flat on his chest. She’s started to do that more and more. And she knows they’ve both noticed it, her hand flitting closer to his heart every time, like she’s checking to make sure it’s still there and beating and both of those things are melodramatic, but he traded _his ship_ for her and she’s going to fix this.

She’s going to fix all of it. 

And live happily ever after. 

“Talk to me,” Emma says, only a little disappointed that it sounds a bit like begging and that’s not the vibe she’s going for. At all. She’s going for enthusiastic girlfriend, determined to support her pirate boyfriend and his, apparent, treasure stashed throughout the kingdom and she genuinely cannot wrap her mind around him keeping things in her room. 

Even after. 

Especially after. 

Like…  
  
“Swan,” Killian murmurs, the curve of his hook under her chin. “There’s not anything to talk about. It’s...it’s fine.”  
  
“You’re honestly getting worse at it.”  
  
“That can’t possibly be true.”  
  
“It’d be insulting if I weren’t so worried.”  
  
He sighs, head falling forward slightly, but that only makes it easier to push up on her toes and brush her lips against his. “There’s nothing to be worried about,” Killian says, not bothering to pull back. “At least not when it comes to this.”  
  
“Liar, liar.”  
  
“We’ve already had several discussions about my pants, love.”  
  
Emma doesn’t really laugh, but it’s almost there and she’s pleasantly surprised the dock doesn’t shake when she drops back to her heels. And, just like that, everything changes. She snaps her head up, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together because, just like that, she’s jumped out of worried and directly into focused and she’s going to track down the goddamn mermaid and _make her_ help if she has to. 

She’s going to get this ship back and find Edward Teach again and maybe cast a few spells and then, for good measure, she’s going to make sure that Killian Jones tells her every single thought he’s had in the last two weeks. 

“Emma,” he whispers, pulling her out of her reverie. He’s staring at her incredulously, which is also a little insulting, all things considered, but they’ve also both been through so much garbage and consistent shit, that Emma assumes maybe they’re just not used the potential of something good happening. 

Gods, that is depressing. 

They’re going to get this ship back and set sail for somewhere else. 

“A week,” Emma says, well aware that those two words don’t make sense. Killian’s eyebrows get lower. “A week. At least.”  
  
“What are you saying right now?”  
  
“You and me. A week. Maybe two. We don’t even have to go anywhere. What’s the technical term for that? Port? Dock? Oh, oh, oh,” she stabs her finger into his chest, flashing a smile when his hook moves around her wrist, “drop anchor, that’s it, isn’t it?”  
  
“Probably depends on context.”  
  
“Can you sail a ship on your own?”  
  
“That’s insulting.”  
  
“That’s not an answer.”  
  
“Yes,” Killian says, widening his eyes. “Where are you going with this?”  
  
Emma takes a deep breath, jutting her chin out, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. If anything she crowds further into his space, letting the warmth that seems to just exude off him wrap around her, twisting and settling and making her even more determined. She’s going to save this. _Them_. She’s going to save them. 

“I want you to listen to me and don’t interrupt, you understand?”

He doesn’t say anything. Emma rolls her eyes. That only leads to a smirk, crinkles around his eyes and a flash in his gaze that’s several decades in the making. “Aye, your highness. Not a single interruption during your decree.”  
  
“Gods, you’re frustrating.”  
  
She hates his eyebrows. And the tip of his tongue. Or, just, his tongue. In general. 

She does not. 

About any of those things.

“We are getting this ship back,” Emma says. “And I know--damn, ok, I know you think that you’ve done things wrong and--”  
  
“--Swan.”  
  
“What did I say about interruptions, Lieutenant?”  
  
He ducks his eyes, dots of color on his cheeks that probably shouldn’t be attractive, but they also make him look so much younger and Emma knows they’re only standing on this dock because they need to get a goddamn mermaid to lead them to an infamous, horrible pirate, but her mind has kind of latched onto the symmetry of it all and--

“When we were in Storybrooke, you said that you were worried about the riptide,” she adds, voice dropping of its own accord. This is not going the way she planned. That should be tattooed on her forehead at this point. “And you can tell me there’s nothing going on. That it’s fine. You can get progressively worse at lying every single day for the rest of our lives, but that’s all they are, babe, lies.”  
  
He looks back up at her, a little repentant and just a shade nervous. “That’s not what I want.”  
  
“I know it’s not. So talk to me. Why do you keep trying to brush this off?”

“I’m not.”  
  
“Killian,” Emma sighs, far too much oxygen falling out of her. She grits her teeth, free hand coming up to yank lightly on his jacket until her fingers move towards the charms around his neck and she can’t seem to stop moving. 

So she doesn’t. 

She traces over skin, moves over his collarbone and the tendons in his neck, obvious whenever he clenches his jaw. She brushes over his shoulder, leather soft under her skin, dragging down towards his elbow and the cool metal of his hook, letting her fingers wrap around that as well. She pulls it away from her wrist and for half a moment she thinks Killian’s eyes have fallen closed, but then his gaze finds hers and it’s all emotion and charged energy, far too much blue to be entirely fair, and his lips part as soon as Emma pulls his arm towards the ring hanging over the front of her shirt. 

“Talk to me.”  
  
One side of his mouth tugs up at the command, a bit of _royal_ they very likely don’t have time for. “It was years, Swan,” he breathes, and, that time, his eyelashes do flutter, memories playing out across his face and practically tugging at the back of her brain. “And I know--I know I didn’t remember it the whole time, but it’s…” 

He exhales, licking his lips before he tugs them behind his teeth like he’s looking for the perfect words. “If Arthur knew what I was, then he’s far from the only person. And even if they don’t, they know Captain Hook. It wasn’t always magic, love, but it was never particularly good.” 

“I know that--”  
  
“--No, Emma, you don’t,” he interrupts, the words turning to metal and steel and it’s a stupid sword pun. He hates that sword so much. “And its---” They’re going to use up all the air on the dock. Maybe all the air in Misthaven. She’s far too dramatic when she’s tired. “You don’t,” Killian repeats. “Not really. And I...it’s all here again. Like flashing neon lights.”  
  
“Times Square.”  
  
“Aye, exactly like goddamn, bloody Times Square.”  
  
Emma chuckles, soft and understanding and she gets it. She does. Nothing has happened the way it was supposed to. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s not your fault.”  
  
“Seriously, the lying. It’s gross.”  
  
Killian hums. His lips twitch again, teeth chewing down lightly and the jacket’s got to be heavy. There’s just so much of it. Emma wonders if that’s some kind of message. Like armor, or something, hiding him just a bit from eyes that widen every time he walks by and doors that slam shut and...her. 

“I thought--” Killian starts again, running his hand through his hair and yanking hard enough that Emma is certain she can feel the stab of pain as well. “I don’t know what I thought, honestly. I hoped, I suppose. That everything could just be. Again.”  
  
“That’s not a bad thing.”  
  
“Aye, it’s not, but it might be an impossible thing. What did our esteemed captain of the guard tell us? We’ve got to be both and people are still going to be afraid of me, Emma. No matter what I do or what I promise.” He shrugs, disappointing hanging off every one of his limbs. “Maybe I deserve that.”  
  
“That’s ridiculous,” she says before she can stop herself and _they do not have time for this_. The town is starting to wake up, a low hum that doesn’t have anything on Times Square, but there are fewer costumed characters here, so it’s kind of a give and take sort of thing. 

“Excuse me?”  
  
Emma tries to elongate her spine. She hopes that makes her look like more of an authority. “Ridiculous. Just it’s---” Her hands move through the air, and she’s definitely missed her mark on authority and royal, particularly when Killian tires to contain her limbs, half a smile and his head tilted just enough that several strands of hair fall towards his eyes. 

“Ridiculous?”  
  
“I’m going to curse you.”  
  
“You know the threat loses some of its weight, when it’s happened so many times now.”

He grins when she groans, eyebrows jumping and hook falling back to her waist. “Do you miss the magic?” Emma asks, voice barely that because it’s a shitty question and even worse thought and Killian’s lips practically disappear. 

“Sometimes.”  
  
“Yeah, I figured.”  
  
“I know you did, love,” he mutters, nosing at her cheek. “But that’s not a particularly good thing either, is it? The magic wasn’t good, Swan. It was the opposite of good. That was kind of its whole schtick.”

“You’re not funny.”  
  
“I’m not trying to be. The magic was bad. It was dark and wrong and evil. At its core. I could---I could flick my fingers and people would be dead. I could freeze them and move my sword through them as if I was moving it through air. But worse than that. I did things even without the magic. Gave in to darkness that was just...me. It wasn’t the magic and it wasn’t what you’d done. It just existed. There.”  
  
He tilts his head down, letting his chin fall towards his chest and the hand Emma still has pressed there, a few inches away from his heart. “It wasn’t anything except me, Swan,” Killian whispers. “And sometimes...I want it again. I want to feel that again. The chance to be more than myself because just me is--bad. And I miss the magic and I want the control, to have something go the way I want it to, to believe that I could--”

“--Oh, if you say protect me, I will slap you.”

Killian shakes his head. “You’re more than capable of protecting yourself. You don’t need me for that.”  
  
“But?”

“There it is.” He kisses the bridge of her nose when she huffs in frustration, a burst of magic that seems to fly out of her left heel and, that time, the dock does shake. “But,” Killian continues, “Isaac said it, love. It’s not--I’m not…”

He doesn't finish. He doesn’t really have to. 

And Emma will, eventually, wish she reacts better. She knows it’s unfair. After everything – the years and the regret and far too much magic for two people to ever contend with – but her brain doesn’t care and her heart cares even less, furious by the words she’s processing and the feelings she swears are simmering just underneath her skin, fire and fury and more goddamn, fucking magic.  
  
“Is that what this is?” she asks, pushing back up to try and force herself into his eye line. “You think you don’t deserve to get things back because...what? You were an ass?”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
“No, no, no, that’s--” Her laugh is absurd, a little manic and disbelieving and Killian’s expression shifts again. He’s breathing through his mouth. “Shit, I can’t come up with another word except ridiculous. Tell me another word.”  
  
“So you can make fun of me?”  
  
“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Aye, I know that too. Inane is a good one.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, that is good, actually.”  
  
“All those years amongst the stacks paying off,” Killian mutters, exhale tickling Emma’s skin. It makes her wobble on her toes, but his arm is there and she can’t quite get a handle on his limbs. There’s some kind of octopus joke to be made.

“I think we may have missed out on the stacks,” she says. His arm tightens. “Don’t you think?”  
  
“Don’t make plans you can’t follow through on, Swan.”  
  
Emma grins, laughter that feels more normal than anything has in the last two weeks bubbling out of her and it’s always been so easy. They’ve always been so easy. Inevitable. That’s a good word too. She scratches her nails lightly against his chest, drawing a wonderful sound out of him that’s something like a groan and a sigh and she almost loses her train of thought entirely when his mouth drags against her jaw. 

“I think we could do something about that,” Emma mumbles. “It’s a rather good college cliché, isn’t it?”  
  
“I believe so, yes. And I did have memories of attending a naval academy in that realm. That’s rather close to college, don’t you think?”  
  
“Enough.”

Killian hums, burrowing closer to her neck and there are teeth involved that time, a quick nip against her skin that makes Emma’s back arch. “It’s going to be alright, love,” he says, and Emma knows he’s not just telling her. He’s reminding himself. 

“But?”  
  
“You’re repeating yourself.”  
  
“And you're very obvious when you’re not saying something.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s true at all,” Killian argues, not lifting his head up and there are footsteps around them now, muted voices and the start of a day and they’ve really got to find this mermaid. She can feel him inhale. “The stories are all there, love,” he adds, “the good and the bad and the magic and the heroes live happily ever after, every single time, but…”

Emma jerks back. She sounds like she’s panting. It’s gross. But her heart is beating so quickly it hurts and her magic roars, defenses rising because she’s only ever, really, wanted to defend this and--”That’s not what’s going to happen.”  
  
“Plans you can’t follow through on.”  
  
“No. It’s---none of us were really the good guys here.” Emma swallows back her frustration, but she can see how much he believes it. That he doesn’t deserve any of it, that people _should_ be afraid and her hand flies to his cheek. Her question is silly. She asks it anyway. “You think you don’t get that? Bullshit. Of course you do. It’s--whatever you want, that’s…” Gods, she can’t catch her breath, clawing at the front of his jacket like that will keep her grounded or expand her vocabulary. “That’s what this is. We’re going to use the stupid shell phone and--seriously, where else were you keeping treasure?”  
  
“Oh, I like that you used the word treasure.”  
  
“Did they teach you deflection techniques when you decided to become a pirate?”  
  
“Not as such, no.”  
  
“Then?”  
  
“Lots of places,” Killian says dismissively, and Emma is only kind of annoyed by that, but it’s getting increasingly difficult to see past the tears in her eyes. “You never want to leave all of it in one spot. Easier to steal that way. Plus, the burying part is a horrible stereotype.”  
  
Emma scoffs, and he’s smiling at her. It’s almost convincing. “This is happening,” she says, another decree that only sounds slightly unimpressive when the words wobble out of her. “You’re going to do whatever you have to do with that.” She nods at the shell still, somehow, clutched in his hand and it might be actually be vibrating, but Emma is on a roll and her magic feels like a wave and more tide puns and-- “And we’re going to find Edward Teach and, aw, fuck, teach him a lesson sounds so lame.”  
  
“Yes, it does.”  
  
“Shut up.” He winks at her. He tries. He’s so bad at that. “That’s happening too, though. And then we’re going to thank the mermaid for her help and get on the ship and you’re going to prove that you can sail it by yourself or at least teach me how to do something useful and--” Emma has to take a deep breath. Her lungs are burning. That may be her magic. “We’re going to sail somewhere and stay there and there will be no birds and no royals and I’m not going to let you wear that jacket at all.”  
  
Killian blinks. “Do you not like the jacket?”  
  
“Your pants are still ridiculous in this realm, you know that?”  
  
“I think that means you’re looking, love.”  
  
“I mean…” Emma shrugs, not able to argue and not all that inclined too, and Killian catches her mouth with his before she can even begin to formulate words anyway. They stay that way for a moment, simply content to exist and be, and, for a moment, Emma forgets about everything she’s just shouted. 

That’s probably her first mistake. Or seventeenth, whatever. She’s not keeping track. And the voice that appears next to them sounds almost amused at what she’s witnessing. 

They’ve got to start making out in more private locations. 

The stacks of the castle library, maybe. 

“You know, you never were very good at understanding how that worked.”

Emma jumps back, hands flying up and Killian’s sword nothing more than a blur in the corner of her eye, but the woman in front of them just smiles and woman isn’t really the right word. Mermaid. It’s a mermaid. 

She’s got her arms resting on the edge of the dock, chin balanced on one of her palms and a wry smile that’s almost impossible to see over the mess of red hair draped around her shoulders. Her fingers flutter against her own cheek, eyebrows disappearing into that same hairline and whatever noise Killian makes does not sound surprised. 

“Hook,” she says brightly, although her eyes keep darting towards Emma. “Long time, no see.”  
  
Killian makes that noise again. “How did you get here, Fisk?”

“Fisk?” Emma asks, finally lowering her hands and Ariel rolls her eyes. She assumes it’s Ariel. She hopes it’s Ariel. 

If there are multiple mermaids involved in this Emma may scream. 

“It’s another word for fish,” Ariel explains. “He thinks he’s very funny.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that, actually.”  
  
“I assumed as much. You are her, right? You look like her.”  
  
“Do I?”  
  
Ariel nods, a soft hum of agreement that leaves Killian sighing dramatically, the tips of his ears gone red. “Oh yes. It’s the eyes.”

“An answer, Fisk,” Killian snaps, and Emma only kind of regrets that because she’s, quite suddenly, got several brand-new questions. “How did you know we were here?”

“I think it had something to do with your princess, actually. All that magic. Opened up the shell, got it working and here I am.”  
  
“Were you eavesdropping on the conversation?”  
  
“Not intentionally,” Ariel mutters, but Emma’s very good at picking up on lies and that’s a particularly bad one. “I mean...you were talking very loudly. You’ve gotten awfully self-loathing in the last few cursed years, haven’t you?”

“Eavesdropping is a very unattractive habit in humans.”  
  
“Luckily I get a pass on that.”  
  
“Hysterical.” Ariel grins, familiar and confident and Emma’s whole soul is going to burst with the number of questions it’s now holding. “Why New York?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You left my sword in an abandoned train track in New York City with--”

“--Oh, did you mess up my collection, Hook? I’m going to be really annoyed if you did that.”

“That was you?” Emma balks, Ariel’s nose scrunching slightly. “All that stuff? You’re...you’re the reason the sword was in New York?”  
  
“I’ll only agree to that if Hook promises not to get angry.”

He makes a low noise in his throat at that, not quite a threat, but fingers dancing over the hilt of his sword. Emma’s starting to feel like she’s interrupting something. “An answer,” Killian growls. “Why there? Why not--”  
  
“--I couldn’t get into the town,” Ariel explains. “There were protections around it and it wouldn’t have made sense to just leave the sword there. That’s...that’s insane.”  
  
“And we’re not that, are we?”  
  
Ariel scowls. “You’re getting high and mighty with me, Hook. You want an explanation? Shut up.”

Emma may laugh. It sounds like she laughs. She doesn’t mean to. 

Killian head twists at the noise, smile stretching across his face in slow motion, like he’s surprised and so is she and maybe that can go under the first tattoo. 

There’s not enough room on her forehead. 

“Where did you end up?” Ariel asks. “Incidentally. I’m assuming it wasn’t where all my treasure was. And it doesn’t seem like it was New York at first.”  
  
“Your ability to discern context clues is unparalleled.”  
  
Ariel flips her tail, Killian’s hair sticking to his forehead and only one side of Emma’s pants are wet. She twists her hand and the water is gone. 

“Impressive trick,” Ariel mumbles, Emma humming in something she hopes is a good first impression. “Where, Hook?”

“Boston. Then--” He may set a record for dramatic exhales. “I couldn't hear it at first, the sword. Like I could here, but I knew. I...did you start the Camelot rumors too?”  
  
“Did that work?”  
  
“What the hell were you trying to accomplish with that?”  
  
She looks incredibly disappointed, lower lip pushing forward into a pout that Emma gets the very strong impression is one of Ariel’s most dangerous tools. Killian lifts his eyebrows. “It was a clue, Hook,” Ariel yells, rolling her whole head for emphasis. “Son of a codfish, that was obvious!”  
  
“Son of a codfish,” Emma echoes slowly, Killian’s laugh echoing in her ear. He kisses her temple.

“Very creative curses in Atlantica. You should hear her after she’s had a few drops of rum in her as well. Gets very mouthy.”  
  
“And the pirate gets self-important when he’s trying to control a situation,” Ariel adds, widening her eyes in unspoken challenge when Killian glares at her. “You really didn’t understand?”  
  
“Speak English, Ariel!”

She sticks her tongue out. “Once upon a time, several lives and a few curses ago, you told me that the very first mission you went on as a bright-eyed naval officer, trying to impress your aforementioned princess, was to Camelot. Which, as I’m sure you’ve noticed in the Land Without Magic, is a rather fantastical and popular legend.”  
  
“Not much of it is true,” Emma grumbles. 

“Yes, that was the point.”  
  
“What?” It takes her a second more to understand, Ariel’s smile turning triumphant when Emma lets out a soft _oh damn_ under her breath. “It was a clue. Ok, ok, so. Let me get this straight. You can bounce between realms--”  
  
“--I mean, there’s not really bouncing involved.”

Emma sighs. “Killian knew where the curse would send us. So did Rumplestilskin. But they didn’t know _where_ we’d land in the Land Without Magic. That’s where you come in. You find Storybrooke, can’t get in, find another city with--what was it about New York, exactly?”  
  
“The pirate is a rather large fan of history if you haven’t noticed.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s true. Ok, so you find the historic spot, you start...what? Stashing treasure of your own on Track 61 and then, once, you and Killian get the bean and he’s gone, you take the sword and put it there, because that’s your horde.”  
  
“Oh, collection is a better word,” Ariel amends, but Killian makes a dismissive noise and mutters _horde_ again. She flicks water at his boot. 

“Whatever,” Emma says. “So you leave the sword there, not knowing where Killian ended up, just knowing that you had to keep it safe because of what it was. And you left him clues. Like...breadcrumbs.”  
  
“I’m not a bird, Swan,” Killian grouses, but Emma is still staring at Ariel and the mermaid is smiling and they were all playing games with boards they didn’t design. 

Gods, Liam was right the whole time. 

“He told me that was his first mission,” Ariel says, and it’s clear she’s doing her best to avoid Killian’s stare. _Glare_. “That you gave him the commission and all he wanted was to do something right. To live up to expectations and a plan he’d concocted in the bowels of a ship, wishing for a future he knew was impossible, but suddenly felt like a rather distant almost. That it could be. Because you did that. A princess, with magic in her fingers and light in her eyes.”

“And he’d been scared. Of the ship and the sea and what it could do. We make quite an interesting pair, don’t we, Hook?” Killian arches an eyebrow, inching closer to Emma like he’s making sure she’s still there and she knows she can’t hear his pulse. She does. She likes to imagine it anyway, the soft patter of his heart and the shift in his breathing, the hint of color that hangs on his cheek when his tongue presses into the side of his mouth. 

“It was a rhetorical question anyway,” Ariel continues, eyes shifting back to Emma. “But that first mission set the course for everything, didn't it? So, once Hook was gone and I still had that infernal sword, I knew there was only one option. To hide it. In a place I could get to if I had to and one that I could help him find. Seemed almost too easy, honestly.”  
  
“Ursula added a caveat,” Killian explains, voice gruff. “When I left. She didn’t--”  
  
“--The betrayal thing probably didn’t sit too well, huh?”  
  
“No, it didn’t. I didn’t remember. Who I was or what I was. Why I was even there. I woke up in Boston with fake memories and this feeling that something was wrong, but no way to figure out what it was.”  
Ariel’s jaw drops, a hiss of pain when her arm slides off the edge of the dock. “But that’s--how did you find her, then?”  
  
“I didn’t. She found me.”  
  
“Seven seas,” she breathes, smile wide when her hands move to her cheeks. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“You’re getting sentimental on me.”  
  
“Shut up, seriously.”  
  
Killian grins, some of the anxiety around him disappearing. So, naturally, Emma keeps talking. “Did you ever go back, though?” she asks. “To New York, I mean. You said you could get back...did you?”

Ariel freezes. And the silence around them isn’t that, is hustle and bustle and those are both terrible words, but Emma’s always been impossibly curious and even more stubborn and a week. At least. 

“No,” Ariel answers eventually, and Emma can feel Killian’s jaw tense. 

“Where have you been, Fisk?”  
  
Ariel groans, twisting and the splash of water definitely comes from the movement of her tail. Emma is having a difficult  
time with this. “I found him,” she says softly, and Killian exhales. It’s not anything except the sound of absolute joy though and Emma can’t snap her head between the two of them quickly enough. 

She feels like a pinball machine, bouncing between the flippers with flashing lights and incorrect references for her current realm, but Ariel is beaming and Killian is staring wide-eyed at her and there is a story here. 

She hopes it’s a good one. 

“Did you?”  
  
“Took some time,” Ariel mutters. “But...well, we’d been on the right track and obviously we didn’t go with Rumplestilskin when he left and--it’s good, Killian. Really good.”  
  
“And you said we were romantic. I’m glad.”  
  
“Me too. You want to tell me what you’re doing now? We heard that the royal court in Misthaven was back, but I wasn’t sure if…”  
  
“That included me?”  
  
“You said it, not me.”  
  
Killian nods, sheathing his sword again and Emma’s neck is starting to ache. “Still a very good fight, Fisk.”  
  
“I’m not trying to fight, Hook. Your princess opened up the shell, I heard you talking and you’re looking for Blackbeard, aren’t you? For the Jolly.”  
  
Emma’s eyes feel like they’re going to fall out of her face. “Do you know where he is?”

“I don’t, no. But--I’ve heard tell of a man, standard drunkard, not much more than a damp rag, except he’s been raving about the crew he’s just left and how he’s desperate to get back home. There was talk that he kept mentioning some kind of rein--horse, thing, but I didn’t really listen to that part of the story.”  
  
“Naturally. He wouldn’t happen to have been more specific, would he? About the ship.”  
  
Ariel nods. “The Queen Anne’s Revenge.”  
  
“What?” Killian shouts, drawing more than a few stairs and whispers and he throws his whole head back when he groans. “Bloody hell, stupid, sodding--” He inhales sharply, shoulders shifting and jacket moving and Emma yanks both her lips behind her teeth so she won’t say something. Ariel does not look impressed. Or surprised. Again. “It wasn’t the Jolly?”  
  
“Why would I lie to you, Hook?”

“How did you find out?”

“You came to me. You thought I’d know where he was!”

“Because you were the last person, mermaid or otherwise who knew where everything was, Ariel! The sword, the ship, the--” Killian cuts himself off, chest heaving and his tongue is a marvel. It darts out, licking his lips again and dragging across his teeth, a move Emma assumes is more threatening when he’s actually holding a blade. “You were there, Fisk,” he adds, softer that time. “The whole time. Why would Blackbeard be sailing a ship that wasn’t mine?”

“Did you want the answer to the first or second question?”

He tries to pull his sword out. And the whole thing is going to pieces much quicker than Emma expected, so she acts on more instinct, twisting and turning, a hand on his chest and fingers curling around a belt loop. Ariels laugh is sardonic at best. “Where is the man, Ariel?” Emma asks, staring straight at Killian and he doesn’t blink. 

An impasse of the piratical variety, it seems. 

“Misthaven?”

“No,” Ariel mutters, Killian’s mumbled _of course not_ far too loud, even with more people around them and it takes a moment to realize that there is another set of feet nearby. Emma refuses to be held accountable for the noise she makes. 

It flies out of her – surprise and...surprise. That’s it. Because the mermaid is now standing. Right there, in front of them, arms crossed over her chest and an unimpressed look on her face, a band of leather around her wrist that wasn’t there a few seconds ago. 

“It still works,” she says, nodding quickly. Killian’s jaw is never going to recover from this morning. “I was worried after you left, but...it was impressive magic.”

“You did that?” Emma asks, regretting the disbelief in her words even before the words have passed her lips. 

Killian reaches back, tugging lightly on the hair behind his right ear. “The one she had wasn’t...well, it sucked didn’t it, Fisk?”

Ariel laughs. Loud. And disarming. But then she’s leaping forward and the noise gets muffled in the curve of Killian’s shoulder and the side of his neck, arms wrapped tightly around each other with only one of her feet barely trailing against the wood of the dock. 

She burrows her head closer to him, a soft sniffle. “Do not say anything about that,” Ariel warns, and Killian hums. “It was Ursula,” she adds, presumably because Emma’s face is still doing that _confused_ thing. “I, um--well, there was a man and he had legs and I didn’t, but I could and it’s a very involved story that does now have a happy ending and Hook and I just...he’s my friend.”

“I’m glad,” Emma says. “For both of you.”

“Yeah, me too. And it’s a very chatty ocean sometimes. Seagulls who love to gossip. This so-called former pirate is in Midas’ kingdom. A port village. Roior.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“It’s not,” Killian sighs, setting Ariel back on her feet. 

“You’ve been there before?”  
  
“He’s been everywhere,” Ariel mumbles, earning herself another glare that she seems to find endlessly amusing. “When?”  
  
“Before you,” he answers. “Years ago. It’s not a particularly safe place.”  
  
Emma can’t help her eye roll. “Well, where would be the fun in that?”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“Are you serious right now? What did we talk about before?”  
  
He sighs, but she doesn’t back down and her magic makes her feel a bit like she’s flying or floating and this is going to work. Two weeks, maybe. “Can you get us there?”  
  
“That’s way more insulting than whatever I suggested before. And obviously.”  
  
“What is she--” Ariel starts, but there are shouts echoing around them and Emma can hear the telltale sounds of blades leaving scabbards and she’s going to issue another decree. Or get Regina to do it. This is getting ridiculous. So, she doesn’t explain. 

She grabs Ariel’s hand and wraps her fingers around Killian’s hook, closing her eyes and hoping for something, _anything_ , to happen the way she wants it to. 

They land relatively well, all things considered. Those things being that one of them does not always have legs. And Killian only gasps slightly, which is a big shift up from the way this usually goes, fingers clawing at Emma’s side like she’s going to disappear. 

“I think that worked,” Emma mutters, Killian clicking his tongue in reproach.  
  
“Oh, aye, aye, it worked fine, Swan. You still steady on there, Fisk?”  
  
“I’m going to drown you,” Ariel promises. She stands up straighter though, shaking her hair off her shoulders with a look of determination that Emma is quickly coming to appreciate. 

“Didn’t we do that once?”  
  
She tuts loudly, kicking her foot out and that doesn’t do much to help her balance. 

Emma pulls her gaze away for a moment, glancing around instead to, at least, try and figure out if they’re in the right place. If the look of it is anything to go by, they are. 

And the smell. 

It smells like fish and mud, as if the ground is never completely dry here, a definite squelch every time Emma shifts her foot. There are more clouds in this sky than there were in Misthaven, a haziness to it all that is as far from gold as it’s possible to be. The nearest building isn’t much more than a shack, and Emma still doesn’t entirely understand how foundations work, but she’s fairly certain walls shouldn’t droop quite that much. 

She can’t find a single window with an attached shutter. 

“This is Midas’ kingdom?” she asks, Ariel nodding before she finishes the question. “But that’s--”  
  
“Everything that happened in Misthaven didn’t just affect Misthaven. When you lot left, the entire Enchanted Forest felt it. George dying sent a whole string of events into motion that people are still trying to come to terms with. And not just your people. Everyone. Across the entire realm.”  
  
“Fuck,” Emma breathes. “God damn, Arthur was right.”  
  
“Misthaven was at the center of it all, your highness,” Ariel continues, seemingly oblivious to the small crowd inching closer to them and Killian has to lean back to get his sword out without stabbing Emma in the process. 

“What happened to Midas?”  
  
“Did you know that his daughter was supposed to be betrothed to your prince?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m going to take that as a no.”  
  
“This is not helping, Fisk,” Killian hisses, twisting and blocking Emma’s back with his front. He flips his wrist, the point of his sword directed straight at the men suddenly in front of them. 

They’re all wearing matching expressions, disgust and fury, mumbled curses and shaky steps, the scent of stale mead hanging around them. Most of them have dirt smudged on a variety of different spots on their cheeks, hair that’s matted to their head with sweat and rainwater and none of them seem capable of focusing their eyes very well. 

They all look slightly glazed over, and for one, paralyzing moment of fear Emma wonders if they’re also cursed. They’re not. They’re drunk. 

Constantly. Indefinitely. 

“Shit,” she mutters, like she’s going down a list of un-princess-like curses. 

“That about sums it up,” Ariel agrees. “George had been stockpiling magic. And no matter what his reasons for that really were, it happened. Then all that magic disappeared. In one fell swoop and the entire realm shook with the lack of it. You said it, your highness, Arthur was right. That’s why he did what he did. And this kingdom? Midas and his gold and his riches. He pulled in on himself, drew back behind that gold and those riches and forgot everyone else. Left them all to rot here with the fish.”  
  
“The very gossipy fish,” Killian mutters, hissing when Ariel does, finally, land her kick. The men are still moving towards them, most of them stumbling, but some walking with purpose and focus, blades dragging across the ground and Emma flexes her fingers. 

The ground shifts, mud moving underneath stained boots until it’s all but impossible for any of the crowd to lift their feet. She grins. 

Killian spins back towards her, a breath of air that’s almost too obviously filled with pride and Emma seriously cannot think straight when his eyes go that color. “Brilliant,” he says, a quick kiss that’s closer to _searing_ than anything else and that’s probably why everything goes to hell.

Figures. 

His lips have barely left hers when Emma’s magic jumps, makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up and her stomach fly into her throat and she can’t move fast enough. She tries, does her best to get her hands up, or her mind focused, but neither one of those things work and the sword that moves into her vision is barely that. 

The metal is rusted, a warped blade that will probably do more damage now and it all happens impossibly fast. Emma’s head snaps up, Killian twisting when she tries to move him, but the sword is already falling through the air and she squeezes her eyes shut, hoping and, maybe even praying a big, silent plea to gods who have already done enough, and then she’s on the other side of the square. Ariel’s teeth are bared. 

There’s something in her hand. 

And the man is frozen. 

“Is that…” Emma starts, barely able to get her vocal chords to work. 

Killian chuckles. “A bloody fork.”

“Ok, it’s not a fork,” Ariel argues, but she moves her hand slightly, stabbing forward because whatever it is in her hand is embedded in the man’s shoulder. “It’s a trident. Small. Powerful. Able to hold--” She glances over her shoulder, smile turning teasing. “You ready, Hook?”  
  
“Gods.”  
  
“What?” Emma demands. “What is it?”  
  
Ariel’s smile widens. “Squid ink.”  
  
Killian might whimper, head falling forward and crashing against Emma’s shoulder, a thump that doesn’t quite hurt, but feels a little defeated. She closes her eyes, trying to catch her breath. It doesn’t work. 

She didn’t expect it to. 

“Who is that, then?”  
  
“Beats me,” Ariel shrugs. “But he reeks of rum, so...I’ll give you a chance to guess, if you want. And, just as an added bonus, I know you didn’t hear him yell whatever he was yelling when you were making eyes at each other.”  
  
Killian hisses. “Ariel.”  
  
“Are we not having fun, Hook?”  
  
“You think this is the man?” he asks, jerking his head towards the still-frozen body and it’s kind of weird to look at. He’s clearly breathing, a steady rhythm to his chest, but that’s all there is. His limbs, arms that are questionably large and undeniably strong, hang at his side, sword by his feet and clothes that don’t look like they belong in this part of the Enchanted Forest.

“You said he was trying to get home,” Emma muses, not quite a full-fledged idea, but at least getting there. Ariel blinks. “When we were on the dock. You said the man was trying to get home, that he’d left Blackbeard’s crew--”  
  
“--I never said left,” Ariel cuts in. “For all we know he was thrown over the side.”  
  
“That seems like a good thing, doesn’t it?”

“If this is the right man.”  
  
Emma nods slowly, not an agreement, but more hope. “Can you uh...you want not be stabbing him anymore?”  
  
“Sure,” Ariel says, but Killian makes a noise. “Seriously, what is your problem? If this is the guy then he probably knows where Blackbeard is lurking.”  
  
“What did he say?”

“Hmmm?”

“You were making quips, mermaid. What did he say?”

Ariel twists her mouth, a look that’s also becoming familiar and Emma would like a detailed history of their entire time together. “Do not try and go fearsome pirate captain on me right now. It’s never worked.”

“An answer, Ariel.”

“He said, and I’m quoting because you were distracted o fearsome pirate captain, _it’s her_ . So, you two probably have a lot in common.”

Killian’s eyes are nothing more than slits, lips gone thin as he tries to push Emma behind him again. She cannot sigh loudly enough. “You’re an idiot,” she mumbles, stepping around him before he has a chance to catch her with his hook. She waves a hand, the man flinching when his eyes land on the fork still stuck in his shoulder. 

“What in all the realms is that?” he shouts, and he doesn’t sound like a villain. Emma’s going to take that as a sign. “What is--you! It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Depends on who you’re looking for.”

“You’re the Savior. Right?”

Emma ignores the flutter of warning in her stomach, a soft push of nerves that isn’t quite as strong as the magic flaring in her palm. The man’s eyes bug. “Why are you looking for me?”

“Hook did you not ever tell her how to interrogate a prisoner?” Ariel groans, dropping onto a half-broken window sill with a surprising amount of grace. 

Killian’s eye roll lasts for at least several seconds. “When have I had time?”

“That’s fair, I suppose.”

“Generous.”

Emma waves an impatient hand over her shoulder, staring intently at the man in front of her and he, honestly, does not look like a threat. He looks strong. Years, she’d imagine, of time spent on a pirate ship in a realm that was, apparently, falling apart because of her, but he doesn’t look like he wants to hurt her and he only grunts softly when he tugs the fork out of his shoulder. 

“Ah--” Ariel cries when he tosses it on the ground. It bounces off his sword. She doesn’t say anything else. 

“Am I right?” the man whispers, a note of _entreaty_ in his voice that makes Emma’s magic jump again. Because it wants to help. She nods slowly. “And that’s--that’s Captain Jones?”

Ariel nearly falls off the windowsill. And Emma did not expect that. Several disasters of the magical variety or otherwise, but certainly not that. The ground makes another noise a ground should not make when Killian steps forward, his hook pressed lightly into the small of her back.

“Who are you?”

The man sighs, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to stand up straighter or at least look a little bit better and Emma appreciates the effort. “My name is Kristoff Stein,” he says. “I’m from Arendelle.”

“Arendelle,” Emma repeats, the word cracking when she practically screams it. Kristoff nods. “Like--Elsa and--”

“--That’s my sister-in-law. Or, well, it might be. If I can ever get home.”

“Might?”

Another nod. This one is more depressing. “Anna--that’s my fiancé. She and Elsa were young when their parents died. But it was alright for awhile, at least as much as it could be. There were regents and some time before Elsa came of age and then she did and--that magic, it scared people. Whispers and rumors and fear. That’s what it was, really, fear. 

Elsa, she...she left and that was it. She was gone and we just...we never saw her again. Anna did her best, tried to rule and control things, but when we heard Misthaven had disappeared it was too easy for others with claims to the throne to challenge her and I don’t think it took Hans more than a few weeks to gain control. She ran. Into the woods and found me and my family and--”

“--Where does the steed fit into it?” Ariel cuts in, unimpressed by Emma and Killian’s matching groans. “Every story I heard about you said you were bemoaning the loss of a steed.”

“Reindeer,” Kristoff corrects. This is too much for Emma’s brain to deal with. “And magic of our own. I grew up in those forests. With the rock trolls.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma says, “rock trolls?”

“I promise, that’s not the important part of the story.”

“Right, right, right. But Elsa is back now. We’re back.”

“Yes, but that hasn’t fixed everything, I’m afraid. I didn’t even know Elsa was here until I got to this town. Not a lot of information readily available under Blackbeard’s rule.”

Killian stiffens at that, the curve of his hook digging further into Emma’s back. “How did you end up a pirate if you grew up in the Arendelle forest?”

“I just told you. Hans. He wanted a throne and he found one perfect for the taking in Arendelle. He stole what should have been Anna’s and Elsa’s, seized control and turned the kingdom into something it’s not. It’s---that’s not the home I knew anymore. And Anna was content to stay with the trolls for some time, but she’s--” Kristoff shakes his head, a look that makes Emma’s chest ache. “We couldn’t just let Hans win. And we’d heard a rumor. About a pirate captain who’d traded with Anna’s parents before. He had a wishing star.”

“That sounds very fake,” Ariel muses. 

“It’s not. It’s magic. Strong magic that could have helped us get rid of Hans and bring Elsa back home, but--”

“--Blackbeard didn’t have it, did he?” Killian asks, Kristoff’s disappointment almost palpable. 

“No. We thought he did. Let him talk and demand things, but it was nothing more than a rouse and then Hans was there and it was...I couldn’t let him take Anna.”

Emma’s ribs feel as if they’re cracking. She can’t remember the last time she took a deep breath. “What did you do?”

“Agreed to give myself up if he let her go. I’d stay on the ship, work until---well, until the end, I suppose, and he agreed. It took some convincing, but Anna left and I didn’t. I stayed on that ship and breathed that salt and I don’t think I ever really slept, lost track of the months. But then, something happened.”

“Yeah?”

The question is silly. Emma knows the answer. 

And it’s not a something. It’s a someone. 

“Very loud footsteps, you know. Like he’s trying to prove something. Or intimidate.”

“Or control his magic,” Ariel mumbles, a smile when Killian gapes exasperatedly at her. “What? That’s totally true.”

“That’s not the point, Fisk.”

“Anyway,” Kristoff continues. “I was in the galley and I heard the footsteps and the shouts. Demands and questions and

Blackbeard thought he’d won. I knew who Captain Hook was, had heard the stories of the fury and the way he was able to wield that sword. Like it was part of you, wasn’t it?”

“Something like that,” Killian says. “Where’s my ship now? And how’d you know my name?”

“You are all terrible at listening, aren’t you? Blackbeard thought he’d won. He was convinced he’d defeated the great Captain Hook, stolen his ship right out from under him--”

“--I gave it to him!”

“I can guarantee he did not care. He thought he’d tricked you, sent you away with a worthless piece of discarded magic. So he started calling you something else. Killian Jones. Thought it was disrespectful.”

Emma’s anger does not make sense. It’s not her name or her ship or anything except what Killian has given up _for_ her, but the feeling rushes through her all the same, a flash of heat and burst of emotion and she’s breathing loudly. 

Because Blackbeard is a goddamn fucking idiot. 

And Killian Jones, on his own, _just him_ , is the best man she’s ever known. 

She spins on her toes, pushing up because she cannot fathom the look on his face, defeated and disappointed and her kiss is barely more than a brush of her lips against his. She’s got something to say anyway. 

“I want you to listen to me,” Emma says, wrapping her fingers around the side of his arm. “It doesn’t matter. None of it. No matter what. No matter what they’ve said or will say or could say and---how many tenses is that?”  
  
“I don’t know, love.”

Emma laughs, soft and shaky. “I love you. Just you. Every single time, right?”

“Aye.”

“So we find Blackbeard and we get the Jolly back and it’s happily--”

“--Is that what you think?” Killian interrupts, and her calves do not appreciate the way she falls back to the ground. “It’s not about the bloody ship, Emma.”

“What?”

“I was wrong, Swan. Every single thing I did. Even this--” He waves a derisive hand towards Kristoff. “--rock troll person knows it!”

“Hey,” Kristoff snaps. Emma is not breathing. It hurts. But that’s almost expected at this point. And three weeks.

Definitely. 

A whole month. 

They deserve it 

“I don’t think rock troll person really makes sense, babe,” she reasons, one side of her mouth tugging up. It works a quiet scoff out of Killian, eyes gone glossy and mouth hanging open. “What is it then, really?”

He swallows, a muscle in his temple jumping and she knows he wants to tug on his hair. He doesn’t move his hand away from her though, lets his fingers drag up and down her side, like he’s marking the fabric and the skin underneath, determined to leave the feel of him behind until Emma’s magic flickers and Ariel gasps at the light around them. “The rules are there love,” Killian whispers. “Every story. Every time. The villain doesn’t get to come back. And I--it was too quick, Emma. There should have been more time there. Without the magic or the memories or people staring at me like I’m going to run them through.”

“You’re not, though.”

“You know that. They don’t. And I would have. I told you I wanted to in Camelot. Even David said it. It was never about the ship, Emma. It’s you. Every single time.”

Kissing him is not the right response. 

But neither crying. 

And she’s doing both, so Emma figures she’s lost complete control of the situation and lets herself fall into the moment, the feel of him against her and the rhythm of his lips on hers, steady and certain and _happily ever after_ is an absurd phrase, particularly after so much time spent in the Land Without Magic, but she’s kind of clinging to them at this point and--

“That’s not going to change,” she says, a promise she’ll make every day if she has to, even without the ship or several kingdoms that continue to hate her for the rest of time. 

“You don’t--”

“--No, no, shut up. That’s not how this works. Just you, Killian.”

He kisses her that time. It’s a slim distinction really, and probably not all that important, but Emma covets it, does her best to memorize the slight tilt of his head and the brush of his hair against her forehead, the way his tongue brushes into her mouth like he’s giving in and that’s not really right. 

He’s done waiting. 

Because she found him. 

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” he mumbles. “What were you saying about a week before?”

“I’m at like...a full month now, honestly.”

“Ah, yeah, that’s better.”

“So, uh...were we still going to find the Jolly or did we not want to do that anymore?” Ariel asks, back on the windowsill with her legs kicking out in front of her.

Killian’s eyes dart towards Emma. She nods. “Kristoff,” she says. “Do you know where the Jolly is now? Does Blackbeard actually still have it?”

“As far as I know.”

“And you know where he is?”

“Where he was last, at least.”

“Which was…”

“I ran when he docked in DunBroch, but that was weeks ago and now I’ve heard he’s not there anymore.”

“Where?” Emma asks softly, but there’s no mistaking the demand or the magic that audibly crackles between her fingers. 

“The men here say he was scared when word arrived that Captain Jones was back in this realm. So he went the one place he’s hopeful he won’t be followed.”

“Oh bloody hell,” Killian mumbles, Ariel’s whole body sagging with the force of her sigh. Emma tilts her head up, another question she doesn’t have to actually ask. And that time, she doesn’t. Because she knows. And it’s not good. 

“So,” she says, “how do we get to Neverland, then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ariel and Will constantly compete as my favorite characters. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	19. Chapter 19

“That one.”  
  
“That one?”   
  
“What was confusing about that?”   
  
Emma cannot roll her whole body, but she tries, letting her head loll between her shoulders as she makes the world’s most dramatic noise. That, however, only leads to Killian’s eyes widening, mouth going tight and a sharp inhale that is even more ridiculous than her. 

She kind of resents that he’s winning that particular competition. 

It’s not a competition. 

It’s grand larceny. 

Of the nautical variety. 

“That is huge,” Emma hisses, crouched behind what, at first glance, appeared to be empty crates. They are not empty. They are filled with something that smells absolutely horrendous. 

That also seems to be the entire schtick of this place, though, and now they’re going to steal a ship and get to Neverland, _somehow_ , and there wasn’t much of a plan, just a selection and Killian is determined. 

And stubborn. 

Impossibly stubborn. 

“It’s a ship, love,” he reasons. His shoulder keeps bumping against hers, trying to pull his sword out of its scabbard without also elbowing her in the side. It’s not really working. “They are, by their very nature, rather large.”  
  
Emma sticks out her tongue. She’s a picture of maturity and magic and she knows their options are rather limited in this God awful town. If she never sees another fish again, it will be too soon. 

“Won’t there be a crew, though?” Kristoff asks. His voice is starting to sound a little stronger, less slurring of words and a slightly more focused gaze. It’s a small victory, but he’s got a good point and Emma’s going to horde as much positivity as she possibly can. 

“What happened to your sword?” she asks. 

“You want to fight the crew?”

“I mean,” Emma shrugs, eyes flitting towards Killian. His lips twist. “Let’s try to avoid any serious bodily harm.”  
  
“Really aiming high, huh?” Ariel mutters. She huffs, and her hair must have a mind of its own because it always seem to be flying towards her eyes. It takes her a moment to brush it away, but that also gives Kristoff a moment to come to terms with fighting his way out of Roior and that ship is only a little intimidating. “Do you have a plan here, Hook,” Ariel continues, “or did you just want to storm in? You can’t--you know.”   
  
Killian glares at her. “Thank you, Fisk.”   
  
“I’m just saying.”   
  
“Oh, I know you are and I am well aware of what I’m lacking, but--”   
  
“--I mean,” Emma cuts in, twisting her wrist and letting her fingers flutter slightly, “we’re not exactly missing the magical part.”   
  
“Are we attacking or not?” Kristoff demands. He’s almost standing, which kind of throws off the whole _sneaking_ thing and none of them had really decided to do that, but it seemed like instinct or something. 

Emma assumes pirates do a lot of sneaking. 

Killian groans again. “Attacking is such a vulgar way of phrasing it. We’re…”  
  
“Borrowing?” Ariel suggests with a smile. 

“I mean--no.”  
  
Emma snickers, mostly because it’s ridiculous and there are tiny spots of color on his cheeks, like he’s embarrassed. She can’t be anything except endeared by that. So she twists, ignoring the ache in her calves and how much it hurts to rest most of her weight on her toes, a quick kiss pressed to those spots and Killian’s breath catches when he feels the surge of her magic. 

“I don’t think we’re going to be giving the ship back,” he admits softly, and Emma can’t stop laughing. That’s probably against the pirate code. 

“I’m sure they’ll understand. Once they wake up.”  
  
“Are we knocking people out?” Kristoff sputters. “Can’t we just---” He waves his hands through the air, a note of frustration that’s starting to drift ever closer to desperation. Emma’s started breathing through her mouth. 

“Is that a human thing?” Ariel asks, brows flying into her hair like Kristoff has started speaking in tongues. “Should we understand what that means?”  
  
“Fisk, you have lived here for literal years.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, but, you know, sometimes, you lot do exceptionally strange things and--”   
  
“--You stabbed him with a fork twenty minutes ago!”   
  
“That was a trident,” she hisses, voice going dangerously low and Emma hopes she doesn’t use the stupid thing again. At least not on them. 

Killian pinches the bridge of his nose, a mumbled _Gods help us_ that only makes Ariel’s eyes go slimmer and whatever sword Kristoff _has_ found is not the same one as before. “Where’d you get the squid ink?”   
  
“Went back to Ursula's father. He was...well, let’s say rather disappointed with the way things had turned out and then she was gone and the Dark One was gone. And--” Ariel clicks her tongue, more explanations that would probably sound better on a stolen pirate ship. “I didn’t know what was going to happen,” she whispers. “If you came back or would come back or could and then there was Rumplestiltskin and I just...I figured it didn’t hurt to be prepared.”

“And you never could say no to a good trinket.”  
  
“Well now you’re just getting insulting”   
  
Emma makes another noise – and eventually, she’s sure, she’ll be able to control the sounds her body makes, but she’s impossibly curious and far too impatient and Kristoff looks close to self combustion. 

“What exactly is it you were suggesting before?” she asks, doing her best to keep any type of less-than-positive out of her voice. 

Killian kisses her hair. 

“You showed up here,” Kristoff says slowly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “With magic. Right?”  
  
“Obviously.”   
  
“Why can’t we just magic our way to Neverland?”   
  
Emma blinks. “Oh, well--”   
  
“--Neverland isn’t like that,” Killian cuts in, and there’s no mistaking the tone of his voice. It’s soft, but a bit menacing and unquestionable, an authority there that brokers no discussion. Particularly when he keeps talking. “The magic that exists there it..it wouldn’t accept us, not if Emma were there. I’m positive.”   
  
“Jeez.”   
  
“There’s a reason I never went back, it’s not a particularly good place. That magic is dark. Exceptionally so.”

“Like you?” Kristoff asks, and Ariel absolutely curses. This one also involves a fish and its progeny. 

Killian grits his teeth, and they’re going to be found out if they keep lurking in this corner. Kristoff doesn’t look all that concerned though, a challenge in his expression and the tilt of the stolen sword in his hand. 

Emma twists her wrist. 

And the sword turns. Towards Kristoff. 

He gasps, choking on oxygen and lingering rum and Emma’s answering smile is equal parts unnatural and a little mean. She’s going to have to get Ariel to teach her some curses.

They’re incredibly creative. 

“Ok, you’re going to shut up for two seconds, you understand?” He doesn’t answer. Emma didn’t expect him to. “If Killian says we’ve got to steal a goddamn fleet of ships, that’s what we’re going to do. Because we are getting out of this shit hole to an even worse shit hole so that we can save the entire realm. And you can either decide that you’re going to help, without the pointed allusions to magic or previous interactions, or not. Because you were looking for me, right?”  
  
Silence. 

“You can answer that one,” Emma sneers, waving her hand again and Kristoff’s whole body falls forward with his gasp. 

“Yes,” he breathes, and she doesn’t think she imagines the tears in his eyes. It almost makes her feel bad. Almost. “I--I just want to find Anna.”  
  
“You don’t know where she is?”   
  
“No. I--she wouldn’t have stayed with Hans and every rumor I’ve heard about Arendelle is that he’s still in power there. But now Elsa is back and maybe Blackbeard knows where she went and--”   
  
“--Ok, ok,” Emma interrupts quickly. Her mind is racing, a few jumps and there’s probably a water obstacle, just to really drive the point home that this is some kind of insurmountable challenge. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We are going to steal this ship. We are going to try, very hard, not to kill anyone. I do, actually, have magic, so that shouldn’t be too difficult. We round up the crew, get rid of the crew and then set sail for Neverland.”   
  
“Then,” she adds, a sharp head shake when Kristoff opens his mouth to interject, “No, no, still my floor. Then. We are going to find Blackbeard, we’re going to fuck him up a little bit--” That gets a laugh out of Ariel and another kiss out of Killian. “--Oh, shut up, shut up, shut up, I am not the speech-giver.”   
  
“You’re doing fantastic, love,” Killian promises. “Keep going.”   
  
She’s going to do damage to her tongue if she keep sticking it out like that. “We’re going to fuck up Blackbeard, get the hell out of Neverland, find Anna, help Elsa and--” Emma takes a deep breath. “--We’re going to make sure that the people in this stupid realm know that we’re not a threat. Arthur will stop being an asshole. There’ll be treaties and plans and everyone will be safe. Like they’re supposed to.”   
  
“Except maybe this crew we’re going to presumably knock unconscious,” Ariel says, and Emma’s laugh is really more a guffaw. 

It’s not all that inspiring. 

She falls forward, letting her forehead crash into Killian’s shoulder, but that makes it easier for him to wrap his arm around her middle and she’s starting to get very dependent on the feel of his hook pressed against her back. 

Like an anchor or something. 

Emma should learn more nautical terms. 

“I want to help,” she adds, glancing back up at a paler-than-normal Kristoff. “And that’s why you were looking for me, right? Because you thought I could?”  
  
He nods slowly, more anxious energy in the movement. “I hoped, at least. I...I just want to find Anna. Go home. Maybe actually get married.”

“That’s nice.”  
  
“Could be.”   
  
“Will be,” Emma amends, and it’s a promise she isn’t sure she should make, but the words are out of her mouth before she can consider the implications of them. She wonders where the box is. Maybe under her floor. “So,” she turns back towards Killian, not surprised to find him smirking at her, “what do we do first?”   
  
The smirk turns into a smile, a flash of excitement in his eyes that’s almost a memory. It’s like jumping back in time, landing with both feet in those same metaphorical puddles Emma was thinking of before, but she’s pleasantly surprised that the water is warm and not quite as deep as she originally expected. 

“We have to be quiet,” Killian starts. 

“Oh my God, you’re just being obvious now.”  
  
“From what I can tell there really aren’t too many on that ship who aren’t wobbling--”   
  
“--What kind of eyesight do you have?”   
  
“Swan,” he chastises, but Emma’s still standing in that puddle and she’s mostly doing it for the way his eyes widen in exasperation. “Look,” Killian continues, jerking his chin towards the shadow leaning against the rail of the ship. “That one can barely keep his feet under him. This isn’t going to be bad, love.”   
  
“Far too confident for you own good,” Ariel grumbles, Kristoff tapping impatiently on the hilt of his sword. 

“Look at him. He’s hanging over the rail.”  
  
“And that’s the lookout?” Emma asks. Killian shrugs. “Ok, babe, that’s honestly not really a ton of help, actually.”   
  
“I’d imagine he is. There’s two more on the other side of the deck, probably half a dozen below and--” He looks at Kristoff, standing up and wincing slightly when one of his knees pops. “Do you know where that ship is from?”   
  
“Does it matter?”   
  
“I’d rather not start any wars if we don’t have to.”   
  
“I thought we weren’t going to kill anyone.”   
  
“He’s being very royal,” Ariel mutters. She stands as well, hair everywhere and smile obvious and, maybe, once they get rid of the crew she and Emma can have a rather in depth conversation about...everything. 

“Thank you Fisk,” Killian growls. “Once again, you’re adding a lot to this conversation.”  
  
“How did you plan to get on the ship, exactly? There’s no gang plank. Did you expect to simply scale the sides?”   
  
“Well…”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Fisk.”   
  
“No!”

“C’mon,” he goads, a smile that's only a little patronizing. “This’ll be fun. You get in the water. You just...pull yourself up. You stab some people.”  
  
“What kind of upper-body strength do you think I have?” Ariel shouts. It’s far from their first mistake, but it’s definitely their loudest, and the man hanging over the side of the railing does not seem to have lost his ability to hear things. 

Whatever Killian says is not in English. 

“I refuse to take responsibility for that,” Ariel hisses. “And you’re being unreasonable, Hook. I can’t take on an entire ship on my own. That’s insane.”  
  
Killian’s eyes are barely open anymore. “Do you have a better plan?”   
  
“You have gotten so bad at this!”   
  
It’s another far-too-loud cry, voice rising and cracking slightly, and it’s made all the more ridiculous because Ariel actually stomps her foot as well. Which is not really a sentence Emma thought she’d come up with when she realized they’d be working with a mermaid. 

The railing guy is standing up now, head darting around, looking for the source of the sound and Emma can hear more voices coming from the ship, an entire crew being roused to the possibility of an attack that’s gone entirely pear shaped before they’ve even moved out of the corner. 

“How did you ever get anything done?” Kristoff asks, sounding genuinely interested even as he directs his sword towards the empty space in front of him. 

Killian makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Probably some kind of dark magic miracle, honestly.”  
  
“Ok,” Ariel groans, and she’s got tridents in both her hands now. “I am standing right here.”

“And we’re all going to have to fight before we even get on the ship.”  
  
“Well, that’s your fault then, you should have picked a ship with a less alert crew. Plus, Emma is right. It’s enormous. You’re trying to show off.”   
  
“I’m going to steal your cuff.”   
  
“Dark One,” she hisses, getting a smile that’s more a sneer and a questionable amount of sarcasm and the thud of the gangplank landing on the dock is loud enough that Kristoff jumps in surprise. 

Ariel giggles. 

“Oh, don’t do that,” Kristoff whines. “This is--I am also having a hard time standing upright and now I’ve got goddamn Captain Hook fighting with someone who keeps making allusions to humans like she isn’t actually one--”  
  
“--Did we not mention that Fisk is a mermaid?” Killian asks lightly. He’s got his sword out now, shifting his weight between his feet and doing his best to work his left arm behind him. So he can move Emma. 

Her sigh hurts. “You know you have no tact at all?”  
  
“Honestly,” Ariel agrees, crouching slightly like she’s going to pounce at the first crewman who comes near them. Kristoff does not appear to be breathing. 

“Occupational hazard,” Killian says. He sounds slightly distracted, head twisting back and forth and it only takes Emma a moment to realize what he’s doing. 

Counting. 

“Oh for Gods’ sake,” she grumbles, leaning forward to grab his hook. “You know there’s barely anyone on that ship now.”  
  
She gets to five before his head snaps around towards her, something like pride and several other wholly inappropriate for a soon-to-be-fight emotions flickering across his face and Emma’s only slightly disappointed he doesn’t kiss her. 

“We should just let you come up with everything now. Plans. Sweeping speeches. All of that.”  
  
“Ha ha ha.”   
  
“I’m serious, love. Unparalleled royal control.”   
  
“All I’m saying is that the ship is probably fairly easy to seize at this point. We’ve just got to get through the battle we’ve created for ourselves.”   
  
“Easy.”

“Your compliments are sorely lacking, Lieutenant.”

His eyebrows jump, another flash and the tip of his tongue peeking between his teeth. Someone from the crew shouts something that sounds a hell of a lot like _intruders_ and--”That doesn’t even make any sense,” Emma mutters, and it should be impossible to see how blue Killian’s are. “Like in context. Right?”   
  
“I’ve already surrendered complete control of the situation to you, Swan. If you don’t think it makes sense, then--”   
  
“--Ariel, give me another insult to throw at the Lieutenant.”   
  
Ariel laughs, taking a step forward and using Killian’s shoulder as leverage. She clicks her tongue as she takes in the latest crowd to advance on them, a trend Emma hopes will stop as soon as they save everything. 

And everyone. 

Again. 

“There,” one of the men shouts, a wobbly arm and shaky steps, even as he picks up into a run. “They’re hiding there!”  
  
Kristoff sighs again, put-upon and exhausted and Emma understands the feeling perfectly. She does the ground thing again. 

“Don’t tell Regina that I cast the same spell twice,” she says, “I’ll never hear the end of it.”  
  
Killian chuckles, pulling his arm back to his side so he can immediately swing it through the air, the loud crunch of his hook colliding with the nearest man’s nose oddly satisfying. Ariel shivers. “Oh God, I hate when he does that.”

“Did that happen a lot?” Emma asks. She turns when she notices a blade flickering at the edge of her vision, only a little annoyed and not entirely unsurprised that more people have joined the fray. Drunk men in shoddy seaside ports, it has been her experience, love few things more than a fight they are not explicitly a part of. 

“No,” Killian says at the same time Ariel mutters “absolutely.”

“What kind of relationship did you two have?” Kristoff asks sharply, smacking another rum-soaked man with the side of his sword. “Gods, that hurt. Jones, how do you not hurt your arm when you do that?”

“I’m very impressive in battle,” Killian drawls, drawing a scoff out of Emma. “Is that disbelief I hear, your highness?”

Emma rolls her eyes, pressing her shoulders further into his back and she can’t see his face, but she knows he’s grinning like an idiot. 

She’d also like to get home and get married. At some point. Maybe she’ll bring that up. At some point. 

“How many people would you say you’ve incapacitated so far, Lieutenant?”

“This is not a competition, Swan.”  
  
“I think that’s because you’re losing.” She waves her hand, proving a point in an argument that isn’t that, is absolutely misplaced flirting and the three men jogging towards her with cries on their lips and rusted swords in their hands immediately start moving the opposite direction. 

Directly off the dock. 

“Oh that was good,” Ariel muses, elbowing someone and she really is very talented with her feet. Her stomps seem particularly effective.  
  
“Wait, wait, I’m confused,” Kristoff mutters. He ducks under a wayward blow, grabbing a handful of dirt when he lands on his back and it’s an on-target throw that lands in the man’s eyes. “I thought Jones was a captain.”   
  
“Obviously,” Killian grumbles. 

“And doing a very good job of ignoring my question,” Emma adds, smile wide enough that she’s briefly worried about it stretching out her muscles. Her whole body is humming, a buzz under her skin that’s pleasant and almost kind of warm, proof positive, she’s sure, that they’re doing the right thing. 

They haven’t actually killed anyone. 

So. Points, or whatever. 

“You’re playing with a stacked deck, Swan,” Killian argues. “Although the water thing was very impressive.”  
  
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She twists back around him, grinning and it’s somewhere between idiotic and romantic, which is a very fine line to walk in the middle of a quasi-battle, but that’s probably just the life they live at this point and--”Captain.”   
  
He groans. Right there. Right out loud. 

And the rush of magic that sears through Emma’s veins is intoxicating, powerful and world-altering and she’s got a few suspicions she hasn’t voiced yet, because she might be as stubborn as he is. 

“Oh, that’s not fair at all,” Killian says, head falling forward until the ends of his hair move as well. Ariel appears to be gagging. 

Emma hums. “I know, right? I think I’m at like...eight. Possibly nine.”

“Right, right, well, that is incredibly impressive, Swan,” Killian says, one side of his mouth tugging up and she’s not a superhero, does not have _spidey sense_ , because it’s another incorrect idiom, but Emma does have magic and really rather good hearing. So she’s not entirely surprised by the boots she can hear moving behind her, but she is a little stunned by the arm around her waist and the hook digging into her hip and, well, she supposes there had to be a few instances of blood.

The man behind them gasps in tandem with Emma – as soon as she crashes into Killian’s chest and Killian’s sword pierces his right arm. “Gabh transna ort fhéin,” he mumbles, twisting into the blade and--

“That’s only going to make it worse, mate,” Killian says. He doesn’t stop moving, gritting his teeth in pain. “Honestly. This is sword fighting one-oh-one.”  
  
“What in all hell are you talking about?” Kristoff demands. 

“Wrong realm for that joke,” Emma murmurs, magic still making her skin feel as if it’s vibrating. She takes a quick breath, letting it out even faster, shaking her arms and bobbing lightly on the balls of her feet. 

Killian’s eyebrows jump. "Are you alright, love?”  
  
“Are you?”   
  
“Fine.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“Fine,” he repeats, glancing around and they’ve done a fairly good job of stymying the immediate threat. Anyone still standing looks a little less inclined to challenge them. And, for a moment, she’s certain he’s telling the truth, but then his shoulders shift and his sword is still embedded in this man’s arm and Emma can’t think about anything except the way the muscles in his throat move when he swallows. 

“You want to go best two out of three or something?” she asks. 

“I’m not sure that makes sense.”  
  
“Should the sword thing be less attractive?”   
  
“Hmmm?”   
  
“The sword thing,” Emma says, nodding slightly and the man is getting paler. “It was all very smooth. The whole saving the princess schtick.”   
  
“I really doubt you needed to be saved.”

Emma hums, magic fluttering at an actual compliment, and she cannot possibly be expected to do anything except blush demurely when Killian’s expression turns like that – wanting and a little needy and she thinks she remembers a silencing spell she learned several lifetimes ago. 

A stolen ship on the way to an infernal hell island seems like the perfect place to test that.  
  
“Can we get this blasted blade out of my goddamn arm?” the man shouts, trying to move again, but that only ends with more grousing and gnashing of teeth. 

“That was your own fault,” Killian says, pulling his arm back and dragging the blood-stained blade against the side of his pants. “Gods, I hate doing that.”  
  
“Bad form?” Emma ventures, fully expecting the look she gets. She matches it, blinking quickly and letting the magic fly out of her. It feels that way, at least, soaring through the air and wrapping around the man’s bloody shoulder, twisting skin back together in a way that’s far nicer than it sounds. 

He gapes at her. 

“Witch!”  
  
“Aw, c’mon,” Emma groans, both Killian and Kristoff lifting their swords again. “Man, we were the good guys here. Also, for the record, you came at me!”   
  
“That’s how it works here. We draw swords, we fight, we--”   
  
“--Oh my God, humans,” Ariel grumbles. She’s back on her windowsill, feet kicking out like she’s only slightly bored by the entire scene.

The man ignores her. “You’re not going to be able to get out of here, witch. Not without a fight for your lives.”

“That is unnecessarily dramatic,” Emma says. “Also--” she reaches behind her, smile tugging at her mouth when the cool feel of metal brushes across her fingers, Killian mumbling instructions to both Ariel and Kristoff. “--like, we’re obviously already winning and, you know, there’s just no reason to be rude. So.” She shrugs. “See ya or whatever.”

She blinks, a rush of air and burst of light behind her eyes, and none of them fall over when their feet land on planks of wood.

And she was right, there aren’t many people left on the ship – although the few on the far side of the dock do jump and that’s kind of enjoyable, particularly when they all charge forward. Emma barely lifts her arm. 

They freeze. 

“Did you say _see ya_ to that guy from DunBroch?” Ariel asks conversationally. 

“Yeah,” Emma nods. “I think I did.”  
  
“That’s what I thought. Ok, ok, I just wanted to make sure. Good.”   
  
One of the crew – Emma isn’t actually sure if they’re pirates, and it feels wrong to generalize like that – is trying to move around her magic, curses that are the most creative they’ve heard so far and--   
  
“What in Merlin’s name do you think you’re doing?”   
  
“Are you from Camelot?” Killian asks, and Emma has to chew on the side of her tongue to stop herself from smiling. 

“What was the first clue?”  
  
“I mean--nothing, Camelot is landlocked. So we’ve been told several times recently.”   
  
The understanding that moves across the man’s face is a bit like watching the sunset, mostly because it leaves his eyes slightly hooded and his shoulders curling in on himself and Emma has lost all her patience entirely. 

She barely hears the explanation – something about DunBroch and an alliance and some kingdom with a monarch this man keeps referring to as Briar Rose and--”So, I will ask you one more time, what do you think you’re doing?”  
  
“You know it’s disappointing that we weren’t clearer about this,” Emma says, taking a step forward and ignoring Killian’s quiet sound of protest, not able to wrap his fingers around the back of her shirt with his sword still in his hand. “And,” she adds, leaning into the man’s space with magic simmering around her, “We’re commandeering you’re ship.”

There are, naturally, objections, but Emma’s too busy being a goddamn witch to be worried about them, bodies soaring through the air and landing in the water. 

Again. 

She’s starting to really like that one. 

Any oxygen she’d been holding in her lungs flies out of her as soon as he crashes into her back, face buried in her hair and chin jutting into the side of her neck and it’s impossibly comfortable, even with the far-too-tight arm around her waist. 

Neither one of them is breathing evenly, but that’s probably to be expected, magic and adrenaline and Emma knows Killian can feel both, as easily as if they were his. 

“Gods, but you’re a good pirate,” he whispers, soft enough that even Emma can barely hear. That may have something to do with the thrumming of her heart. 

“Present tense?”  
  
“Currently.”

Emma twists in his hold, enough of her pressed against enough of him that it’s difficult to breathe for a wholly different reason. “The sword thing was stupid attractive.”  
  
“I will keep that in mind.”   
  
She giggles. It’s not her initial plan, but that is also seemingly par for the course, head tilted up and Killian has to sheath his sword so he can brush his thumb against her lower lip. 

And he’s definitely going to kiss her – propriety, seemingly, be damned – but there are still two other people on deck and they’ve got to get out of that town and--

“What are your thoughts on--wait for it, this is a really good one,” Ariel says, slinging most of her body over Killian’s back. “Seaweed brain.”  
  
“Ehhhh.”   
  
“That’s a good one!”   
  
“Seaweed does not have a brain, Fisk,” Killian mutters, trying without much success to get her off him. “You’re going to have to go back to the drawing board.”   
  
“Stop making references no one understands.”   
  
“These are bad insults.”

Ariel huffs, dropping back onto her feet. “Yeah, so say you. Also, uh...how say you in regards to getting to Neverland? You think you can sail this tub on your own?”  
  
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”   
  
“You did pick the biggest ship in the harbor, babe,” Emma says. “Lots of---deck space and do you think there’s food on here?”   
  
“There better be,” Kristoff mumbles, already sitting down with his head in his hands. “Is the whole thing spinning, though?”   
  
Killian sighs. “Land locked.”   
  
“That’s really not an insult either,” Emma points out. 

“And I didn’t pick this ship because it was the biggest deck. I picked it because it’s got the biggest sails.”  
  
“Explain that.”   
  
“Neverland’s not exactly an easy place to get to.”   
  
“So we’ve heard. Why did we need big sails?” He clicks his teeth, a bit of unexpected trepidation that makes Emma’s heart drop. “Gods, is it bad? What is it? Neverland’s not another realm.”   
  
“No, no, we’ll definitely be able to sail there,” Killian promises. “But--”   
  
“--Jeez.”   
  
“But,” he continues, “That magic I was talking about? The kind that wouldn’t be inclined to letting you blink us there? It’s...ok, your magic, love, it’s light, right?” Emma makes a noise, neither an agreement nor otherwise, and Killian widens his eyes. “It is,” he nods. “This is the opposite. This--I don’t know if Darkness originated from Neverland, but the magic there is twisted. Time doesn’t match up there the way it does here. The nights last forever and you could probably spend a hundred years there without aging.”   
  
“These are all very interesting facts, babe, but--”   
  
“--We have to fly there,” Killian says quickly, wincing when Emma’s face does something a face should not do. It hurts her jaw.   
  
“What? Why?”   
  
“The magic is embedded in the land there. And, like I said, it’s not good. It’s...heavier. Dark magic weighs on you, love. Drags you down. Literally, in this case. Neverland, doesn’t really match up with the rest of the realm.”   
  
Emma shakes her head, trying to piece this together in a way that doesn’t sound entirely impossible. “But you were there. How did you get there before? As far as I know George didn’t have any flying ships.”   
  
“No, no, he didn’t. But he did have a Pegasus sail. The Gods know how he got it, but it made The Jolly, ah--the Jewel fly. You come to Neverland from above.”   
  
“That is insane,” Emma says evenly, Killian’s quiet hum of agreement a bit of a solace. “Did you take this sail off the Jolly before you traded it?”   
  
He shakes his head. 

“Fucking--” Emma grunts, and her forehead is damp when she drags her hand across her face. “What aren’t you telling me?”  
  
“Probably asking, if you want to get technical,” Ariel mutters. She’s perched on the rail, toying with a few droplets of water on the wood. 

Emma’s head snaps back around, eyes going wide when she sees the expression on Killian’s face – not quite nervous, but a little close to imploring and maybe he’s got more muscles in his throat than the average person. 

She’s going to drag her teeth over every single one later. 

“You think I can make it fly, don’t you?” she asks, not quite an accusation because she knows the answer and the realization leaves her feeling a little bit like she’s floating already. 

Killian nods. “Aye, I do.”  
  
“I have no idea how to do that.”   
  
“You’ve never had to use spells before, love,” he says, crowding into her space with his thumb back on her cheek. “It just...happens. I wouldn’t ask if--”   
  
“--You didn’t really ask,” Emma grins. “And you wouldn’t have to. Alright, just--” She licks her lips, watching every shift in his face, the bit of light she’s certain are in his eyes and the burst of power in the pit of her stomach only appears when he moves his thumb. Right over the pinch between her eyebrows. “Don’t let go.”   
  
“Never.”   
  
Nothing happens at first. And that’s only kind of disappointing, but Emma’s whole body feels like it is legitimately on fire and they are standing on a ship made entirely of wood, so that’s probably not great, really. 

It takes two seconds for that to change. 

Maybe less. 

She screws her eyes shut, lips pressed together and teeth clenched. Her fingers curl around the front of Killian’s jacket, wrapping around leather and the chain around his neck, focusing every bit of energy on something she can’t actually see. Emma does her best to keep breathing, knees locking into place because any Savior worth their salt should be able to stay upright while casting levitation spells. 

She can hear quiet mumblings around her, but that might be her magic, a vocal hum to it that makes Emma wonder if it’s not alive as well, its own sentient being with a brand of determination that she’s only sort of controlling. She takes another deep breath, far too much salt in the air, but she never really forgot that smell and--

“Ha,” Emma exclaims, eyes flying open and there is light everywhere. It circles around her ankles, creeps up her side and bathes the entire deck in a glow that’s not far from blinding. It trails across ropes and moves up the mast, makes Ariel gasp in delight because--”  
  
“Holy seashells, that’s warm!”   
  
“Holy seashells,” Emma mutters, head falling onto Killian’s chest and he doesn’t flinch. He kisses her hair, her temple, any bit of her he can reach and the first lurch of the ship out of the water is only a little disarming. 

There’s blood in her mouth now, teeth finding her tongue again, but Emma doesn’t close her eyes, just focuses on that one particularly large sail and the gust of wind she knows she’s got control over as well. 

And it takes a few more minutes, shouts and screams and several instances of _witch_ being called from the docks. Until. The water underneath them is barely more than a dot of ink and the sky around them is littered with stars, a coolness to the air that makes it easier to breathe and even easier to see. 

There’s probably a metaphor there. 

“I love you,” Killian says, pressing the words into the crown of Emma’s head and her knees are never going to recover. She feels like she can alter the trajectory of the Earth.

For now, she’ll take the pirate ship. 

It might not be a pirate ship.

“Holy shit,” she breathes. It works another laugh out of Killian, arms around her middle when he tugs her up towards his mouth. The kiss isn’t quite bruising, but it’s getting there, a tease and a possibility and Emma swears her skin is going to melt off her bones. 

She’s halfway to yanking off his jacket right there. And, like, his pants. 

That would probably annoy Kristoff. 

“Bloody, goddamn brilliant,” Killian continues, peppering her face with his mouth and that’s even worse because all Emma can do is chase after him. 

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”  
  
He laughs against her cheek, more warmth that sears itself on her soul. _Gods,_ but she is melodramatic now. “That’s my princess.”   
  
“Are you going to steer the ship or what? There should be a course to plot, right?”   
  
“You’re starting to sound like the captain, love.”   
  
“I’m not going to quote something because it doesn't make sense in this realm, but just know that I want to.” 

That kiss is less...scorching, more akin to embers and memories that couldn’t be tempered by any curse and--”Noted,” Killian mumbles, and Emma can _hear_ him smile. “If I tell you that I’m consistently and constantly stunned by you is that going to be annoying?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“I won’t say it then.”   
  
“Good.”   
  
“We’re going to crash into a cloud,” Ariel calls, standing at the helm and Kristoff is having a difficult time getting back to his feet. 

Killian rolls his eyes. “That is not how this works at all. Also, look at you, Fisk, you’re like a flying fish. You’re a cliché in action.”  
  
“Seaweed. Brain.”   
  
He barks out another laugh – and Emma’s mind latches onto the sound because it’s so good. That’s not enough. It’s more than that, but she’s suddenly kind of exhausted and Kristoff is muttering about _exploring the rest of the ship_ and they are flying. She enchanted a ship to fly.

“I love you too,” Emma says, knuckles cracking when she finally unclenches them. 

Killian beams. There’s a moon joke in there. Several stars, at least. “Aye, I know,” he says, tapping his thumb on the edge of her mouth when it drops open. “And that’s been everything, love. Sit down though, you’re making me nervous.”  
  
“Aye, aye,” Emma salutes, only after she catches his lips once more and the step she crashes onto is almost comfortable. 

She loses track of time. It is, she reasons, because she can’t tell the differences between the stars and everything is so clear and vast and that’s only a little overwhelming, but she’s still on this _saving everyone_ kick, those unspoken assumptions bouncing around the corners of her brain while she unabashedly stares at her pirate boyfriend. 

He’s taken the jacket off. 

And rolled up his sleeves. 

Emma hisses in a breath, not wholly steady, but maybe a little confident, the bits of magic lingering in her fingertips warding off any chill from the seemingly ever-present wind in the sky. 

“You doing ok?” 

She jerks her head up at the question, Ariel smiling softly at her with arms crossed lightly over her chest. The ends of her hair are, somehow, twisted in between around her elbows. “Am I giving off a not-ok, vibe?”  
  
“Oh, not you too.”   
  
“I’m not sure what mean.”   
  
“Yeah, sure you don’t,” Ariel grumbles, nudging her shoulder against Emma’s until there’s room for her on the step too. ”It’s incredible how similar you are.”   
  
“Is this another mermaid insult?”   
  
“That, in and of itself, is kind of insulting, honestly, but--no, it’s not. It’s an observation. Years in the making. He’s not good at giving up information either. Thinks it gives the enemy something on him.”   
  
Emma isn’t going to have a tongue left by the end of the night. “How--” she starts, Ariel’s smile growing because this conversation was probably inevitable. “How did you meet Killian? If it’s not--”   
  
“Oh, no, no, it’s not an overstep for me,” Ariel says. “Him, on the other hand.” Her eyes flicker back up towards the helm, Killian’s hand barely holding one of the prongs of the wheel, an ease that Emma was certain had disappeared several curses ago. “I don’t think he’s very proud of it.”   
  
Emma sighs, a hint of guilt creeping up her spine. “That was my fault. I--”   
  
“--Gave him the magic? Yeah, I figured that out. Eventually.”   
  
“Wait, what?”   
  
Ariel’s smile turns a little regretful. She leans back, flipping her wrist and there’s something in her palm. The paper’s worn, torn edges and a yellow-tinge to it that makes it obvious how old it is. “I told you,” Ariel whispers, Emma’s fingers shaking as she unfolds the page, “your eyes are exactly right.”

It’s her. The drawing isn’t much anymore – barely more than a shadow, but Emma can tell there was time taken in getting the details right, hints of her that make it feel as if the picture is breathing as heavily as she suddenly is, a magic to it that makes her chest ache and her heart thud erratically. 

“I’d always been fascinated with this world,” Ariel says softly, and Emma doesn’t pull her eyes away from the paper. “Grew up listening to tales of humans and love and--I...well, I started dreaming. But there are rules. Traditions that haven’t been broken for a thousand years and interacting with humans was one of them.”  
  
Emma’s lips quirk. “I take it you sort of blew that out of the water.”   
  
“That was funny. Yeah, I did. There was a storm. Bad. One of the worst I can remember and I’d been sneaking to the surface for years already, trying to find out more about this world and these people and I saw it all happen. The ship sinking and the people dying and I couldn’t just let it happen.”   
  
“Sounds heroic.”   
  
“Or foolish, depending on who you ask.”   
  
“The man. The one you told Killian about. Was he on this ship?”   
  
Ariel’s face lights up, a quiet laugh and quick squeeze of Emma’s shoulder. “He was. And, well, a million different things happened. I got caught up with Ursula, got on land, got legs, got separated from Eric--that’s his name by the way.”   
  
“Good name.”   
  
“I think so,” she laughs. “Anyway, he was leaving. Going exploring. And, wouldn’t you know? Another storm. Hook thinks it was Atlantica, but that’s--” Ariel shakes her head, a disbelief that Emma knows she doesn’t entirely agree with. “It doesn’t matter. Eric was gone and I had to find him. I heard a rumor that he’d been picked up by a pirate ship. The only pirate I knew was--”

“Killian?”  
  
Ariel hums. “I’d heard about what had happened in Misthaven. Everyone had. And I knew that Captain Hook was ruthless. What he’d done even before the royal family was gone, but I was desperate and...I was wrong.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Wrong,” Ariel repeats. “It wasn’t Hook. It was Blackbeard.”   
  
“I don’t--” Emma starts, but that only leads to a dismissive hand in her face and magic churning in her gut that’s probably distracting even on the other side of the ship. 

“I found a sword. Did several things I’d like to never think about again in order to get it, but I was told that the man who wielded that sword had Eric and so I found Hook. Took forever, Gods. I didn’t know he had magic, and it honestly wouldn’t have made much of a difference, but I--” She grits her teeth. “Well, I attacked him.”  
  
Emma does not expect that. She expects several thousand things. Not that. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Don’t bother asking him, he won’t admit it, but that’s totally what happened. I’m very cagey. Good at jumping and sneaking. I’m usually quiet. Even got the sword pointed at him. Until, you know, he went all dark magic, intimidating on me and announced that I was this realm’s biggest fool. It was very rude.”  
  
“I’m going to admit that you’ve lost me, but I’m kind of tired from the making the ship fly.”   
  
Ariel hums, a scrunch of her nose that’s probably an agreement. “The sword was Blackbeard's. Hook still had his. Obviously. Never let it out of his sight.”

“Until you.”  
  
“Yeah, me,” Ariel sighs. “I told him about Eric and Blackbeard and he wouldn't help.”   
  
“I can only say _what_ so many times before it gets embarrassing.”

“It’s a very convoluted story, it’s understandable. He wouldn't help. Told me that love was nothing but years of eventual torment and--I know, I know,” she adds, when Emma’s face falls. “He was very dramatic about it, but that’s my point. I asked him what had happened. What could twist him like that to make him believe something he very clearly didn’t want to.”  
  
Emma swallows. She hopes her tongue stays where it’s supposed to. It doesn’t really feel like it, though, which is understandable, what with the bile in the back of her throat and the magic rushing through her and Ariel’s still got that hint of pity in her expression. 

“I was never really scared of him,” she continues softly, “not really. But--then, I...I asked him if he still loved her. The woman that broke his heart.”  
  
“And?”   
  
“Oh, Emma you know the answer to that.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“He told me your name.”

She lets out a breath, a rush of air and emotion and far too much magic, actual pinpricks of light hanging in the molecules around her. Ariel’s hand is warm when it curls around her shoulder. “And I knew, oh Gods, it was obvious,” she adds. “It was like he was being ripped apart at the seams sometimes. He’d hate you. He’d rage and everything would get clouded, that voice creeping in and reminding him you were gone and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.”  
  
“But,” Emma whispers, not sure she wants the rest. Her lungs hurt. She hurts. She really cannot get over his forearms. 

“You always brought him back. Every single time.”

Emma can’t actually sigh. She tries, but there’s not enough air in her lungs or, possibly the world, and the tears that cloud her vision make it difficult to keep ogling Killian. 

And Ariel isn’t done. 

“He’d talk about you sometimes, memories and moments and it never lasted long, but it would change everything. His whole--self would shift, straighter shoulders like he was standing at attention and trying to prove how _good_ he was.”   
  
“And when he wasn’t?”   
  
Ariel lets out a shaky exhale. “He wasn’t. I think part of him did despise you, Emma. I think part of me hated you, for what you’d created and left behind. He never deserved that.”   
  
“I know. I--” She presses her lips together. “Did you find Blackbeard? If you two were together for awhile that must have--”   
  
“--Oh yeah, we did. He gave in eventually, told me I was like a barnacle because I wouldn’t leave him alone, but I couldn’t. I’d watched humans forever, Emma, wondered what it would be like here only to find a world that had been ripped of its magic and its light and I knew part of him missed that too. That he missed you.” She whistles, a quick _something_ that’s probably supposed to be a wink. “You should have seen him when he realized what Rumplestiltskin was planning. He would have ripped apart the world for you.”   
  
Emma licks her lips, breathing even heavier. “That’s not really an answer to the question.”   
  
“Blackbeard wanted the ship. He didn’t have Eric anymore, but he knew where he was and Hook wouldn’t do it.”   
  
Emma’s shoulders drop, stunned into silence by the force of her thoughts and the roar of her emotions. “Right?” Ariel says, one side of her mouth pulling up. “Oh, I hated him for that. For months. Wouldn’t say a word, which he claimed was a gift, but--” Her laugh has no place in this conversation. At all. “--that changed. I wasn’t even surprised when he gave up the Jolly. Made perfect sense.”   
  
“But you found Eric, right?”   
  
Ariel hums. “I did. And that was Hook too. He, uh--coercion of the mind is apparently very difficult, even for those with all the dark magic in the realm, but...he got it out of Blackbeard. Hangman’s Island. What an awful name, right?”   
  
“It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, no.”   
  
“Ah, well, I got there eventually. Found the prince and--”

“--And answered a call from a magically enchanted seashell?”  
  
“He’s always been bad at using that,” Ariel grumbles, leaning back on her elbows and staring up towards the sky. “Can never remember that he doesn’t have to shout.”   
  
“You know it’s not very polite to talk about those when they aren’t around to defend themselves, Fisk,” Killian says, appearing in front of them like he’s teleported there. Ariel barely reacts when he steps on her left foot. 

“I’m stating facts, Hook. And what did you say to me about eavesdropping?”  
  
“Mmhm, are you going to stay up here or--”   
  
“--Please.”   
  
He grins. “Right, right, fresh air and an aversion to cramped spaced.”   
  
“The ocean is very large.”   
  
“Naturally,” he murmurs, holding his hand out for Emma. She takes it immediately. “C’mon, love, there’s got to be at least a vaguely comfortable floor somewhere on this heap.”

They make their way below deck slowly, a ladder and dew-covered rungs, and Killian’s hand never leaves hers, hook hovering just above her back, like he can’t bring himself to pull further away. Emma keeps licking her lips. 

And he notices, of course, because that’s always been the way and it probably always will be and--”  
  
“I think you’re doing it on purpose now,” Emma mumbles, spinning on her heels with her hands flying up towards his shirt and he left his jacket on the deck. There’s something very symmetrical about that. 

Killian arches an eyebrow. “Doing what?”  
  
“Toying with me. Did you read that women are super into guys with their shirts pushed up their arms in New York? Something about Fashion Week?”   
  
“I promise I was no more aware of Fashion Week while I was in New York than I was that I could have magic’ed myself out of New York.”   
  
“Oh, that wasn’t funny.”   
  
“Swan, that was hysterical.”

She sneers, not nearly enough venom to it. She’s going to blame the eyebrow. And, seriously, his forearms. It isn’t easy to pull her arm down, what with the hands that have made their way back to her hips, and they’re already in a cabin, an impressive bit of direction that’s probably the product of years spent on a ship and a life at sea and--

“You’re doing it again,” Killian mumbles, dropping his head so he can mouth at her neck. 

“Doing what?”  
  
“The magic. It’s--” His breath catches loudly when Emma refocuses, pushing the feeling out of fingers that ghost over his jaw and she probably hurts him when she yanks on his hair, but there’s more groaning and not much complaining and it feels like something tips. 

Or flies off a stolen ship, directly into the harbor. 

Emma gasps when her back slams into the wall, hips against hips and it’s all she can do to keep her balance. So, naturally, she tries to do it on one foot, wrapping her other leg around the back of Killian’s calf if only because she’s fairly certain it’ll get that--  
  
“Fucking hell, Emma.”   
  
“It’s your fault,” she accuses, and that gets another noise, a soft grunt of disagreement with a nip of his teeth. The room is spinning. She might spinning. Gods, she hopes she’s not the one actually spinning. 

“And how--” He moves again, more friction that’s not nearly enough because Emma can’t stop squirming, an energy in every one of her limbs. “--Do you figure that?”  
  
She doesn’t answer. She can’t possibly be expected to answer. Not when he’s dragging his mouth over her skin, brands that make her forget where they are and what they’re doing and there’s a _goddamn mermaid_ sleeping above them. Emma gasps against the feel of him, but it’s not sharp, it’s a soft sound, like giving in and falling backwards and the hook that presses against her spine is almost alarmingly cold. 

“Asshole,” she hisses, drawing a dark chuckle out of Killian. She closes her eyes, arching her back away from the metal and further into him and that’s really the point. 

As close to him as she can get. 

“That’s not an explanation, Swan.”

They’ve done this more times than she can count – which is not nearly as romantic as she wants it to be, but Emma can’t even fathom a number that would come close to the amount of times she’s kissed him – and yet. 

_And yet_. 

“Swan,” Killian says, dragging the name out until her shoulder pops out of her shirt.   
  
“That’s ridiculous.”   
  
“You’re running the gamut of insults, love.” He tilts his head up when she clicks her tongue, gaze bright even from underneath his eyelashes. “Although I can’t be entirely opposed to the sounds you make.”   
  
“So I’ve heard.”   
  
“Ah, are we rehasing, you think?”   
  
Emma shakes her head, a soft knock against the wall she’s still pressed into. “I just--” She’s a mess. She can’t move her hands fast enough. And his sword belt sounds impossibly loud when it falls to the floor. “Gods, I---”   
  
“What? You’ve got to tell me what you need, love.”   
  
She can’t breathe. And not because of his fingers or the goddamn curve of his lips or anything except the want in his voice, how much he means it, the honesty slamming into Emma and wrapping around every inch of her, settling into the middle of everything and making her magic spike. Again. Indefinitely. 

_Every single time_.

“You,” she breathes, letting her nails skid across the back of his neck until he lets out his own shuddering breath and they must move. She’s not leaning against the wall, at any rate, a mess of limbs and lips that latch back onto her neck, leaving soft scratches on her skin from the stubble on his jaw. 

And it’s all a bit of a whirlwind – discarded clothes and blankets on the floor, not entirely comfortable, but wholly perfect, the flicker of light around them soothing and only a little crazy. 

That’s the line they’re walking now, apparently. 

“I could feel it,” Killian says eventually, fingers tracing between Emma’s shoulders. “Your magic. Like it was on overload.”  
  
“Distracting?”   
  
“Eh, more like true north.”   
  
“Gods, the puns are not even funny anymore.”   
  
“Got you to laugh though,” he points out, and Emma doesn’t try to stop herself from burrowing closer to his side. “So.”   
  
“So.”   
  
“What are you thinking, Swan?”   
  
“How do you know I’m thinking?”   
  
“Because that’s what you do, love. And you’re really rather horrible at lying to me.”   
  
Emma groans, but he’s absolutely right. “Ariel said everything in this realm flipped after us. The curse and Misthaven and even you. It was---we fucked everything up and I thought it was over when the Darkness was gone, but now I’m starting to think maybe--”

“A prophecy doesn’t just end?”  
  
“Yeah, something like that. Mostly that being the Savior is kind of a full-time job.”   
  
Killian hums, cheek brushing over the top of Emma’s head when he nods, “It’s possible, I suppose. Although it doesn’t seem very fair to you. Or your magic.”   
  
“Yeah, well, that’s kind of how it works, right?”   
  
“I don’t know about that,” he mutters. “I don’t think it should. Not after everything.”   
  
“But?”   
  
“But. I know you, Swan. And I know you’re not going to stop until you have saved everyone. It’s--you wouldn't be you otherwise. So, we go to Neverland and we find some lost Arendelle princess and get all these kingdoms to believe again and the story can keep going forever, an indefinite string of absolute nonsense--”   
  
“--That’s pointed.”   
  
Killian grumbles at the interruption, sliding down to kiss between her brows. Right where the skin is pinched. “It could keep going forever, love. And I’m still going to be right here. If you’ll have me.”   
  
“What a ridiculous caveat.”   
  
“Aye, I think we’ve established my breadth of ridiculous.”   
  
She laughs again. He’s always been good at that too. “I love you.”   
  
“I love you too, Swan. Go to sleep. We’ve got some time.”   
  
Emma hums, pulling herself closer to his side and she swears she can still smell the salt in the air even after her eyes flutter shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not enough sword fighting in this story. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	20. Chapter 20

She wakes up by herself, a small mountain of blankets and her knees curled into her chest. It’s the same thing that’s happened every morning for the last four mornings and Emma knows there’s a variety of reasons for it – least of all the continued aerial state of the ship they’re in – but it never fails to leave a little jolt of fear flickering down her spine and she counts to ten before she gets up. 

Every single morning.

“Alright,” she mutters, entirely to herself because she is entirely by herself and she swears it’s getting warmer. Sweltering, even. 

There are already beads of sweat on her temple, hair matted to the back of her neck and every inch of her feels absolutely disgusting. Like she’s wading through fog or mist that’s far too heavy to be natural and she’s only a little annoyed with herself that it takes so long for her to figure out what is, in fact, going on. 

She’s going to blame the hard tack. 

There’s only hard tack on this ship. 

“Magic,” Emma mumbles, scrambling to her feet and nearly tripping over herself in the process. She kicks back, trying to dislodge her foot from a blanket that’s far too scratchy and she’s been sleeping well, but there’s not much else to do on a ship in the middle of the sky heading towards, quite possibly, the worst place in the realm. 

She feels restless and anxious and the stars are kind of freaking her out. 

There’s too many of them. 

She doesn’t like it. 

“We do not have time to freak out,” she says, and she’s got to stop talking to herself. It’s not going to help – particularly when she glances to her right, eyes tracing over the small window in the quarters she and Killian had claimed and--"Oh, God, fucking hell,” Emma groans. 

It’s still dark out. 

“Swan!”

Emma sighs, running a hand over her face. It comes away damp. 

She hears his footsteps before she even has a chance to turn around, landing heavy on the rungs of the ladder that Emma’s certain is incredibly impractical. He’s got the jacket back on, an extra weight to his shoulders that makes him look impossibly _piratical_ , but she barely notices that when Killian’s eyes are that wide, all unspoken questions and even quieter fear and--

“What’s happening to your face right now?” Emma asks. 

His mouth drops open. “Let’s talk about your face real quick.”  
  
“Ok, rude.”  
  
Killian hums, a hiss of an inhale and more teeth than Emma is used to seeing. He takes another step into her space, treading on at least six blankets in the process, grumbling under his breath as he moves. “You look like you’re having every single thought any human could possibly have all at once.”  
  
“That is convoluted.”  
  
“And your magic is very loud.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Right,” Killian mutters, letting his head fall forward slightly. It’s not enough that he’s actually touching her, but the air is doing that thing again and Emma already hates Neverland. 

He keeps standing at the helm. Staring. At stars. They don’t seem to freak him out as much. 

“Sorry about the magic.”  
  
“That’s not something you have to apologize for, Swan,” Killian says. His hand flinches, half an inch forward and what feels like several thousand miles back, not landing on Emma’s waist like she expects it to. “I just--”  
  
“--Oh, that makes me feel better actually,” she mumbles. “It’s super shitty, but I’m--well, maybe we’re on even ground now.”  
  
“We’re not on any ground.”  
  
She rolls her eyes, but she can just make out his nearly-there smile and the hint of something on the edge of her gaze makes her pulse settle for a moment. “It’s a defense mechanism, right?”  
  
“Mmhm,” Killian nods. “Entirely.”  
  
“Right, right.” Emma licks her lips, dry despite the moisture she’s sure is hanging around her and the ends of her hair are starting to curl from the humidity. Maybe they should have used fewer blankets. She ignores any continued thoughts regarding the bedding, lifting her hands up instead to rest her palms flat on Killian’s chest and it takes a moment for his breathing to even out, but then he’s actually smiling at her, and--  
  
“Still dark out, huh?”

He squeezes one eye shut. “That’s how this place works.”  
  
“It’s almost too on the nose, don’t you think? I always get annoyed when the magic is too obvious.”  
  
Killian barks out a laugh – not entirely unexpected, but Emma can’t help but a little proud of the sound and she absolutely leans into his hand as soon as it brushes her shirt. “Well, if we ever happen to run into that seeress again, I’m sure that’s something you can mention to her. Let your complaints be known, as it were.”  
  
“Way too confident in your own humor.”  
  
“Still a defense mechanism.”  
  
“And what are we defending against, exactly?”  
  
“Probably far more things than we should,” Killian admits. “But mostly the island itself. I don't know what's going to happen. You destroyed Darkness, Swan, but there's still magic here and it isn’t going to like you, Swan.”  
  
“It doesn’t even know me.”  
  
“It’s got very strong prejudices.”

Her whole body shakes with the absurdities of this conversation, head colliding with Killian’s collarbone when her neck just kind of...gives up. “Well, that’s a dick move by the island, huh?”  
  
“Aye, very much so. And it’s not just the island itself; it’s everything that’s here.”  
  
“Really, really bad at telling stories in a coherent manner,” Emma mutters, mostly into his chest because the shirt he’s got on under this jacket is only a little ridiculous and cut far too low. She’ll make fun of that when she can see some sunlight again. 

“There are other people here.”  
  
“Jesus fuck, Killian.”  
  
He chuckles, a distinct lack of humor to the sound. “I’ve never actually seen them, so--”  
  
“--Wait, wait, wait, so how do you know they’re here?”  
  
“Traps. More traps. Deadly traps. Traps you can’t see. Some that look like one thing, but are actually just another trap. And, uh--”  
  
“--Oh my God how is there more?”  
  
He kisses her hair, almost like he’s trying to remind himself of something good and Emma can hear more footsteps moving towards that stupid ladder. “Creatures.”  
  
"I’m sorry, what?”  
  
Emma jerks back, brows pulled low because this is all getting worse and worse and Ariel is already cursing as she climbs into the cabin. “How in all of Poseidon do you two manage to get down here?” she grunts, a wary foot hovering just above the ground. Her eyes flit around, taking in the scene and the almost too-obvious tension, lips going thin. “Ah,” she says slowly. “So, uh...did we get to the part where the likelihood of being attacked as soon as we land is incredibly high?”

Killian sighs. And Emma is going to dislocate her jaw if she keeps snapping it like that.

“No,” she answers. Killian’s eyes widen, not an apology because, honestly, they should be past that at this point, but something that’s almost bigger. Like he’s looking for an ally. “I should probably have a sword too, right?”  
  
Killian exhales – and the jacket doesn’t look so heavy anymore. Emma needs to stop making pointed metaphors in her head. “Aye, probably.”  
  
“I think Kristoff found a whole stash in the crew’s quarters the other day,” Ariel says. 

“And you didn’t want to mention that?”  
  
She shrugs. “I figured we’d get there eventually. Both with the swords and Neverland.”  
  
“Hysterical.”  
  
“I can hear you trying not to laugh, Hook, it’s fine, you don’t have to actually tell me.” Ariel grins when Killian groans, crossing her arms and letting her chin rest on her palm. “Incidentally, are we actually here? It’s difficult to figure out.”  
  
“That’s probably because of the endless night of certain death,” Emma drawls. That gets Killian to laugh. Or at least scoff. She’ll take it.   
  
“Not certain,” he argues. “Just enough threat of death to be annoying.”  
  
Emma hums, mouth twisted and magic shifting. Again. Probably because the air has shifted. Again. The weight of it has stayed the same, a mugginess that’s already starting to make Emma’s shirt damp, but the smell that wraps around them and reminds her of cobwebs and unsteady walls and that’s unexpected. 

“Shit, do you smell that?” 

Killian nods, quick and jerky. “Aye, it’s--it’s like...decay. Like something’s rotting.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“What do you mean what? How can you not smell that?”  
  
“No, no,” Emma objects. “It’s like New York.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Ok, you’ve got to pick another word. I don’t--” She scrunches her nose, like that will get rid of the smell that only seems to be getting stronger, permeating every inch of air and working between each string of fabric in every bit of clothing she’s got on. It lingers around her hair and Emma’s positive she can taste it on the tip of her tongue too, making her eyes water and her stomach lurch. “It smells like it’s old. Dusty and kind of sweaty and--oh shit, it smells like Grand Central. Like Track 61.”  
  
Killian stares at her – eyes going wide again because she does, admittedly, sound a little insane, but Emma’s having a hard time not actually gagging. “Swan, that’s not--”

“Are you both going crazy?” Ariel snaps, the words barely audible with her hand covering her mouth. “It smells like smoke.”  
  
“Smoke? What?”  
  
“God, that word,” Emma grumbles. She stumbles back, sinking onto the edge of a cot she’s done her best to avoid for the last four days. It doesn’t matter now, though, knees bending of their own volition and everything is starting to go a little blurry as she does her best not to breathe too deeply. 

Ariel makes another noise – a soft whimper that’s hardly inspiring, particularly when they’re still in the goddamn air with all the goddamn stars and Emma mumbles _fuck_ when she understands. 

“Babe,” she says sharply, snapping her head up to find Killian’s gone pale. His teeth are digging into his lower lip, far too many crinkles around his eyes when he tries to meet her gaze. “What else do you smell?”  
  
“Should we be harping on this?” Ariel asks. “Shouldn’t we be, you know, landing?”

Emma waves her off, only a little wobbly when she jumps back up. “What else do you smell?” she asks again, and Killian turns his head into her palm as soon as it lands on his cheek. His lips are soft on the inside of her wrist. “Pomegranates?”  
  
It’s not much more than a guess, but she’s got a pretty good idea of what’s happening and this island can go _fuck itself_ , honestly. He nods, scruff scratching her skin. “How did you know that?”

“You said this piece of garbage place wasn’t going to want me here. I think it’s proving that.”  
  
“More specific,” Ariel mutters, perched on the ladder. 

“What are you most afraid of?”  
  
“Not pomegranates.”  
  
“I’m serious,” Emma says, the smell getting worse. She closes her eyes, trying to fight against the memories that flood her brain and her consciousness and it’s like she’s standing there again, watching it all play out in front of her on loop. 

Making her relive it. The very worst thing that’s ever happened to her. 

“You said you found Eric after a storm, right?” Emma continues, and she’s not sure if she moves closer to Killian or he moves closer to her and it does not make a difference. The hook is freezing cold when it brushes over her arm. 

Ariel doesn’t answer. She looks like she’s in pain. 

“And the ship was sinking, fire and smoke and everything burning. Right?” Still nothing. Emma’s whole body hurts, the tears stinging her eyes and she reaches back on instinct. 

_He’s not dead. She didn't kill him. It’s over. She doesn’t have to do it again._

“That’d be terrifying for you,” she continues. “All that water and fire doesn’t make sense there. And then again. Another shipwreck and more destruction and--”

“--Atlantica,” Ariel whispers, eyes darting over Emma’s shoulder towards Killian. 

He exhales softly. “Fuck.”  
  
“He said the flames moved so quickly they barely even had time to jump. Half the crew gone and--” Her breath catches, tears staining her cheeks because they’ve been on this ship for four days and none of them are particularly clean anymore. “It’s not real though, is it? Whatever’s happening to us.”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I think it’s--it’s trying to ward us off. Freak us out or something so we’ll leave.”

“It’s impressive magic, I’ll give it that.”  
  
“Generous,” Killian murmurs, crowding against Emma’s knees and for the first time in maybe ever that doesn’t leave her magic roaring and her heart beating erratically. It just is. Steady and certain and she lets her head fall forward, eyes fluttering closed as she tries to focus on something. 

Anything else. 

_He’s not dead_. 

And that’s enough. It’s not much, but it works, a flicker of energy in the tips of her fingers, making the metal she’s still clutching a bit warmer and Ariel gasps loudly when, presumably, the scent disappears. 

“Did you curse Poseidon before?” Emma asks. She doesn’t bother to open her eyes. 

Ariel makes a noise in the back of her throat. “I wasn’t cursing him, particularly. More like asking for help. Anything else seems like an idiotic move when we have to land in water.”  
  
“That’s a good point.”  
  
“It happens from time to time. Thanks for being stronger than an entire island.”  
  
Emma chuckles, finally opening her eyes and she’s not sure of it, doesn’t want to jinx it or something equally juvenile, but she’s cautiously optimistic that some of the stars outside have gotten just a bit brighter. “Talk to me after we leave the island.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s fair.” Ariel sighs, brushing strands away from her eyes “Alright, well, almighty heroes and eventual rulers of the entire realm--”  
  
“--Get to your point, Fisk,” Killian hisses, but he doesn’t actually object to any of that and Emma hopes he doesn’t feel what it does to her magic. He does. Obviously. 

“I’m just wondering where, exactly, you’d like to land. And how we land. And what your plan is once we get on the island because that water is--” She trails off, a lack of ending that’s almost enough to make Emma realize she doesn’t have an answer to that second point. “Not good.”  
  
“Can water be good or bad?” Emma asks. 

“If we do this right, it won’t matter.”  
  
“Ok, but that’s not an answer.”  
  
Ariel grits her teeth. “You need to get us as close to the shore as possible. I don’t think we want to actually spend too much time treading through the water here.” She nods once, like that’s _that_ and not horrendously ominous, but they’ve already been quasi attacked by magic and it’s so goddamn hot in that cabin and Kristoff is shouting for them. 

“Hey, uh guys,” he calls, and his voice has a very distinct shake to it. Emma’s eyes are going to get stuck mid-roll. “You should--can you come up here?”  
  
“Well, that sounds promising,” Killian says. He kisses the top of Emma’s head – and maybe she’ll start keeping track of those, some weird metronome to keep her focused – twisting around her and nudging his hook into Ariel’s back. “You’ve got to move, Fisk.”

She kicks him. And climbs up the ladder, Kristoff’s shouts getting more and more screech-like, and Killian glances at Emma before flashing her an almost-confident grin. 

“You ready, love?”  
  
She flips her wrist, the light in her palm steady. “Yeah,” she nods. “Let’s go see what fresh hell we’ve got to deal with.”  
  
“That’s the spirit.”

Kristoff is still talking when she steps on deck, mumbled words that sound a lot like questions and a few more that sound a bit like _you’ve got to tell me who you are_ and--”Is this a goddamn joke?” Emma shouts because there is a woman on their ship. 

A woman who they did not leave Roior with. 

“That’s what I’m saying,” Kristoff says, both hands lifted in mock-surrender when the woman points a tiny dagger at his chest. 

“I am trying to help you,” she sneers. “How many times do I have to explain that?”  
  
“Probably a few more after you tell us how you got on this ship,” Emma says. She takes a step forward, false confidence and surging magic, Killian muttering objections as soon as her foot moves. He’s already got his sword out. “Who are you, exactly?”  
  
The woman spins – all grace and hair that doesn’t look like it’s affected by the humidity at all. She’s not very tall, but there’s a strength in her stature that makes Emma less wary. Her smile settles on her face with ease, a strange counterbalance to the steel in her gaze, and she’s dressed in head-to-toe green. 

“My name is Tinker Bell,” she says, Emma’s eyes bugging at that. “And, like, I said. I’m here to help you.”  
  
“Tinker Bell. Like...like the fairy?”  
  
She narrows her eyes at that and the last thing they need is for Emma to inadvertently insult someone from a storybook she knew about when she was cursed. What a weird sentence. But she can also her Killian breathing heavily next to her, sword resting on his shoulder like he’s trying to prove how _calm_ he is, so maybe everything is just a little ridiculous now. 

And she keeps forgetting everyone in this realm thinks he’s Captain Hook. 

Gods, it’s weird. 

“Like the fairy,” Tink confirms. “Or at least I will be again. That’s where you come in.”  
  
“Is it now? How did you get up here?”  
  
She clicks her tongue, digging into a pocket in her dress and pulling out a small pouch. “Pixie dust? Last bit I had, so this better work.”  
  
“And what exactly are we trying to work on?”  
  
“Getting me out of this godforsaken place.”  
  
Emma’s eyebrows fly up her forehead, fast enough that it almost hurts, but that may just be the clench of her jaw and how loudly Killian is tapping his fingers on the hilt of his sword. “You can’t leave?” she asks. “You’re--I mean, you’re a fairy. When I was a kid I always thought fairies were, like, the ultimate. You know, magic-wise.”  
  
“I think that’s you actually, Emma,” Ariel muses, dropping onto the deck to sit cross-legged with her elbows digging into her bent knees. “You look ridiculous, Hook.”  
  
He makes a face at her, but his eyes keep darting between Emma and Tink and this is all getting to be a bit much. “Do you know where Blackbeard is?”

“Look who’s asking the important questions,” Tink says, enough sarcasm in the words to last several sentences. “Yes, I do. And I know that he’s already stirring the Lost Boys--”

“--Wait, wait, hold on,” Emma interrupts. “Lost Boys? So there are other people on this island?”

Tink nods. “Of course.”  
  
“Told you,” Killian mutters, Kristoff sounding like he’s choking and Emma’s mind is spinning. She rubs a circle on her temple, not nearly as good as a kiss, but she’s working with what she’s got at this point. 

Which, at last count, is her own magic, a dark hell-scape of an island with at least one pirate and a group called the Lost Boys, a half-drunk man from Arendelle, a mermaid, a fairy, _apparently_ , and--

“In through your nose, out through your mouth, Swan,” Killian says. He hasn’t moved his sword. That is also stupid.

Emma scowls, but she’d definitely been holding her breath and her lungs appreciate her letting go of some of that tension. “Aye, like that,” he adds, lips curling up into a smirk. “If you’d be so kind as to answer the question, though, Lady Bell. How did you get to Neverland? And why can’t you leave?”  
  
“I remember you,” Tink whispers. “You were much younger then, weren’t you? Not nearly as--” She clicks her tongue, gaze turning appraising and Emma shuffles slightly, trying to put herself in the middle of it. “Heavy. And...there’s something else, isn’t there? It was and now it wasn’t.”  
  
“Is it a requirement of all magical beings to talk in the most obnoxious riddles?” Emma growls. The planks under them creak slightly when Killian leans forward, and that kiss lands on her shoulder. She counts it anyway. 

Tink hums, lips pursed. “I was banished here,” she explains. “A lifetime ago.”  
  
“Banished doesn’t exactly seem very good,” Kristoff says. He’s got his sword out as well now, a bit of color returning to his face when he isn’t being actively challenged. 

“Well, that’s because it wasn’t very good. And the Savior is right. Fairies are powerful, but we’ve gotten greedy. There are rules and--” She sighs. “All I wanted was to help people, set them on the right path and that was...it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done and I was sent here. Without my wings.”  
  
“And the wings make the difference, huh?”  
  
“Are a scholar, sir?” Tink asks, and Emma cannot keep groaning at this pace. 

“Ok, ok, but you still have magic, right?” she presses. “You got up here didn’t--”

“--With the pixie dust.”  
  
“It’s the magic here, isn’t it?” Killian asks softly, Tink snapping her head around quickly with a look that’s somewhere between stunned and only slightly offensive. She nods. “Ok,” he continues, “so that--it’s keeping you here?”  
  
“In a sense.”  
  
“And that sense is?”  
  
“Neverland is a place for lost souls,” Tink explains. “People don’t come here because they want to. They land here because there’s nothing left for them anywhere else. It’s regret and disappointment, magic that yanks on you and makes you--”  
  
“--Remember the worst things that have ever happened to you,” Emma whispers.

“Maybe this will work.”  
  
“But Killian left. After--you say you remember him. He was here. How did that happen?”

“Oh I get it,” Ariel breathes. Emma doesn’t know where to look. There are far too many stars in that sky. 

And her eyes fall on Killian. 

Naturally. 

“Almost too on the nose, huh?” he laughs, Emma’s sniffle sounding a little pitiful all things considered. His eyebrows twist, another flutter of his fingers against his sword and--”What’s changed now, ma’am? Swan’s right. You’ve been here for years. What’s drawing you out of Neverland now?”  
  
“Maybe we don’t insult the fairy like that,” Kristoff suggests lightly, and Emma’s loathe to agree, but she does agree and Tink only looks a little amused. 

“I was born with magic. It rang in my ears and settled in my soul and I wanted to use it to help people. But that was against the rules, so I was sent here where I couldn’t do anything, where the rest of the world went on without me. And magic disappeared. At least, mostly.” She flashes a grin. Emma doesn’t blink. “Anyway, that’s changed now, hasn’t it? The Savior is back, magic is stronger than it’s ever been in this realm and I want to leave this place. Incidentally, did you have magic the first time you were here?”  
  
Killian shakes his head. “Not yet.”  
  
“Huh. That’s interesting. Well,” Tink adds pointedly, “you’ll have to be careful. The island will realize there’s something new about you, an emptiness there that it will try to fill.”  
  
“We’ve done this already,” Emma says, and her voice sounds as if it could melt a variety of things. With acid. “The Darkness is--that’s not a problem. You know what will be a problem? If you manage to fuck up our escape plan.”

“Do you have an escape plan?”  
  
“Or, you know, a plan?” Kristoff amends. Emma glares at him. “I’m just saying.”  
  
“Alright,” she snaps, “you want a plan? Let’s plan. We land in this water, ignoring Ariel’s illusions to how dangerous it is--”  
  
“--Oh, that’s foolish, Savior,” Tink cuts in. “There are mermaids in that water. Not particularly nice to humans either.”

“See,” Ariel mutters, and Emma resists the very real urge to start jumping up and down Killian’s hook presses lightly on her arm. 

“Fine, fine, fine,” Emma sputters. “So we land in the water, we don’t get attacked by mermaids, goddamn Tinker Bell tells us how to get to Blackbeard, we also avoid the Lost Boys, get the Jolly back and then get the hell off this island. Any questions?”  
  
She glances around – an unspoken challenge that, for half a moment, she’s certain won’t result in actual objections, but then Kristoff shake his head slowly and both Killian and Ariel curse at the same time. 

“Jeez,” Emma sighs. “What? What is your question?”  
  
“How do you plan to get Blackbeard to give back the Jolly?”  
  
Emma opens her mouth. And closes it. And opens it. And growls. Her magic flutters under her skin, frustration mixing in with fear because she doesn’t have an actual answer to the question and she hadn’t really gotten that far yet, figured she’d plan as she went and her biggest concern was just getting here, but now there are fairies and demands for rides and--

“Oh, that’s simple,” Killian says, a forced lightness to his voice, “I’m going to kill him.”  
  
The explosion of voices around them is nothing to the one in the very center of Emma, what feels like a small nuclear reactor going off in the pit of her stomach. It leaves her legs trembling under her, a hand flying to her chest to make sure her lungs haven’t collapsed and her fingers grip the ring there like it’s the only thing that will keep her afloat. 

Or, at least, airborne. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she rasps, and Killian actually has the gall to shrug. With his sword on his shoulder. “That is--”  
  
“--Do you have a better plan?”

“Anything is better than that!”  
  
He shakes his head. “That’s the only option we’ve got, love. The bastard’s not going to give up my ship without a fight and I’m not going to take any chances. Tie up the loose ends, as it were.”  
  
“Loose ends of what, exactly?”  
  
“That magic,” Tink whispers. “The one you don’t have anymore. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

Another shrug, more forced calm that feels like a slap in the face when the tension between his shoulders is so blatantly obvious. “Something like that.”

“It’s not the smartest thing you could be doing.”

“Ah, well.” 

Emma drags both her hands down her cheeks, tugging on skin and likely leaving marks in her wake. And Killian’s eyes dart towards hers for a moment, another question, but she also can’t come up with a different plan. 

She just kind of wants to be the one to do it. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Emma says. “Let’s just get on land before we start throwing out murder decrees, ok?”  
  
“I like the phrase _murder decrees_ ,” Ariel mutters, pushing back up and she’s already got a trident in her hand. “We should have thought of that before, Hook. What we were doing?”  
  
“Several thousand other things.”  
  
“Eh, that’s true, I suppose. It’s a lack of creativity on our part, though.”  
  
“Tink,” Emma cuts in, before the conversation can drift into even more macabre territory, “Is there somewhere in particular we should be landing? Or, like, some water with a lower concentration of mermaids?”

“They’ll show up as soon as we do,” Ariel says. “Shadow mermaids hate humans more than anyone else.”  
  
“How many kinds of mermaids are we talking here?”  
  
“How many types of people live in all your kingdoms?” She widens her eyes when Emma doesn’t have a response to that. “Exactly. There’s me, you know, Atlantica. And then Ursula was rumored to have actually been descended from Poseidon. That’s why she is--was? How does that work, exactly?”  
  
“Is this pertinent to our current situation?” Kristoff asks, an immediate _absolutely not_ from Killian.

“Oh, shut up, Hook,” Ariel objects. “Anyway. There’s her, and all those rumors about how she was part siren too--”  
  
“--That’s true, actually,” Killian interjects. 

“Wait, what? I thought you didn’t want to talk about this.”  
  
“I don’t, but the siren thing is true for Ursula. Ask me about that in, like, at least a week, Fisk. It’s very dramatic.”  
  
Ariel sticks out her lower lip in passing interest, Emma only half paying attention now as she tries to pull her magic into the center of her. “Keep talking,” she says, twisting into Killian’s side and, for the first time since she woke up that morning, the air around her smells almost sweet. “It’s making it easier to concentrate.”  
  
“Oh, right, right, well, there are also cold-water mermaids. I think they used to kind of congregate around Arendelle. What’s the name of that sea?”  
  
“It’s just the North Sea,” Kristoff answers. “It’s so cold because it’s near the North Mountain.”  
  
“That’s not very creative either.”  
  
“I didn’t name it.”  
  
“Ariel,” Emma grumbles, and landing is much harder and slightly more terrifying than taking off. She grits her teeth, trying to account for gravity and magic, the feel of it yanking on every one of her limbs, like the island is trying to pull Emma down with it. 

Emma balls one of her hands at her side, the other reaching up and she barely hears Killian's sword sheath so he can lace his fingers through hers. He tugs her hand up, lips dragging across the bend of her knuckles as he breathes words into her skin. She can’t hear much of them, the buzzing in her ears already too loud, but he keeps going and Ariel keeps talking, listing off types of mermaids and customs, the differences between freshwater and salt water and there’s some kind of story about a crab and specific type of fish and Emma jaw aches. 

Neverland keeps fighting her, bits of angers and hints of an odor that make her nose scrunch and a variety of internal organs rise up in revolt. Killian's hand tightens. 

And then it’s gone. 

There’s nothing but light and a soft breeze, a blast of color that makes the stars impossible to see. The ship lands, far from a glide or perfect descent, particularly when it sounds like every inch of it groans upon impact, but nothing shatters and the sails are still intact. 

Emma huffs, exhaustion rippling down her spine and settling at the small of her back. She barely has a moment to consider that before she’s being tugged forward though, fingers leaving hers so he can wrap his arm around her, chin hooked over her shoulder and lips ghosting over the shell of her ear. 

“Bloody brilliant.”  
  
“I don’t ever want to do that again,” Emma says. That’s two kisses to the top of her hair. And one to the side. Either side. That should probably count as two. “What was the difference between freshwater and saltwater mermaid’s hair?”

Ariel’s laugh is nice. And that’s a far too small word for what it actually is, but the stars are starting to return and Emma’s fairly certain she can see more than a few ripples in the water and she really should have gotten a sword before they landed. 

“Oh, right, right,” Ariel stutters. “Uh, saltwater makes it easier to style, but uh freshwater definitely helps with the shine.”  
  
“Good to know.”  
  
She smiles, the movement not reaching her eyes. Figures. And so does the first shake of the ship, a slap that is, quite obviously, more than a few mermaid tails. 

“We need to move,” Tink says. “Now.”

Emma jerks her head, chin colliding with her chest in the process and she doesn’t think before she starts casting spells – invisible barricades and freezing incantations she doesn’t actually voice, but she moves her lips anyway. Only half of them seem to work, likely something to do with Neverland itself, and the water is ice-cold when they clamor over the side of the ship. 

“Holy--” Emma starts, unable to finish that particular thought when she feels hands wrap around her ankle. She jumps. It doesn’t make a difference. She can’t move, a vice-like grip on her leg and water everywhere. Her clothes are already drenched, mud caked to the backs of her calves and both Killian and Kristoff are stabbing at the rough current around them. 

“Stop that,” Tink yells, but it’s no use and whatever has a hold on Emma is trying to pull her underneath the water. 

There’s more shouting. Screams and cries and curses and far too many tails, Emma’s head on a swivel as she tries to keep her balance. Her eyes meet Ariel’s, a silent question and even quicker agreement, and one of them probably takes a deeper breath. 

Emma catches the cuff as soon as Ariel throws it. 

And lets herself get yanked underwater. 

“Emma,” Killian shouts. She barely hears it, lungs already objecting to the distinct lack of oxygen she’s providing them and the water makes every one of her senses react, far too cold and almost painful, tiny, metaphorical knives that stab at her skin and make her magic falter. 

Her eyes close, everything going a bit blurry, until she notices the few dots of color just out of reach, hands that curl around her elbow and whatever was holding onto her ankle is gone now.

Emma can hear someone talking – low and unquestionable, a power to it that’s kind of familiar because it also kind of sounds a little royal and the shadows in her vision are starting to get stronger. It takes her a moment to realize she’s passing out. 

Maybe drowning. 

Oh, damn, she’s totally drowning. 

And it’s not an entirely unpleasant sensation, is a bit like floating even. Until. It’s always until. The fingers around her elbow get tighter, yanking her up and Emma gulps down breaths of air like her life depends on it. 

She swallows, gasping and coughing up water that isn’t quite as cold as it once was. Ariel’s staring at her, her own breathing a little uneven with strands of hair plastered to her cheeks and not a single other mermaid in sight. 

Her tail flips back and forth in the water. 

“All hells,” Kristoff murmurs, dropping both his arms in the water. Emma swallows. And glances at Killian. 

He looks torn between furious and terrified, barely any color left in his gaze. “What just happened?” he demands, and the fear disappears entirely. It’s definitely furious. 

Emma grimaces. “I had an idea.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And Ariel’s also very good at reading my mind.”  
  
“Nothing was ever going to happen, Hook,” Ariel promises, although she sounds a bit like she’s convincing herself as well and neither of them mention the near-drowning thing. “I told you, shadow mermaids are notorious for their hatred of humans. The last thing they expected was for a human to give itself up like that. Plus, you know--I talked to them.”  
  
“Yeah, about that,” Emma says. “Why did that sound like some kind of decree?”  
  
Ariel winces. “Eh, because it might have been?”  
  
Eventually she will blame the lack of consistent oxygen to her brain for how long it takes her to figure it out. And whatever Killian is doing to the back of her shirt, clutching at her like she’s gone again. It was a bad plan. 

“It’s a trident because that’s my father,” Ariel explains, waving the weapon in her hand. Kristoff’s eyes take up half his face. “I get to make fun of Hook becoming a royal because I’m--”  
  
“--A mermaid princess.”  
  
“Yup.”  
  
“You know I'm starting to really feel very self conscious about my lack of title here,” Kristoff grumbles, trudging towards the shore and falling to his knees almost immediately. Killian still hasn’t let go of Emma’s shirt. 

She twists, ignoring the soft rip of fabric. “Nothing was going to happen.”  
  
“You did not know Fisk was royal.”  
  
“No,” Emma concedes. “But I knew she had the possibility for a tail. I figured she liked me enough to save me if I gave the other mermaids what they wanted.”  
  
“And what was that?”  
  
“A human to prove they weren’t attacking them.”  
  
Killian scowls, another huff that brushes against Emma’s cheek when he drops his hand. “Never again. We’re not doing that again.”  
  
“Aye, Captain.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“I know,” she promises, tugging lightly on his charms. “C’mon. Let’s go explore Neverland, huh?”

That, however, proves to be the most ridiculous thing she’s said all day because Neverland proves to be little more than a seemingly never-ending jungle. There are vines everywhere, a variety of greens that make Emma hope she never sees the color again, and every step they take forward only leads them further into darkness. 

She’s so tired of that word. 

“Is there a particular path we’re following here, Lady Bell?” Killian asks eventually. His fingers are back around Emma’s, the impatient swipe of his thumb against the side of her wrist a slightly twisted metronome. 

And everything around them is so loud. It’s strange because Emma can’t actually hear where any of the noises are coming from, but they’re there. Constant. There are bugs, a low hum, and not-so-quiet squawks, what she hopes and isn’t entirely sure are birds, cresting over the tops of trees with even more vines. She can hear muffled voices, whispers that sound like ghosts and those must be the Lost Boys. 

It makes the hair on the back of Emma’s neck stand up. 

“Can you hear that?” she asks, careful not to raise her voice too loudly and Killian’s nod is barely that. Tink gasps. “What? Jeez.”  
  
“You can hear that?” 

Emma snaps her teeth together. “Ok, seriously, straight answers from here on out.”  
  
“Royal decree,” Ariel mumbles.

Tink narrows her eyes – that same penetrating and vaguely judgmental look she’d given Killian before. “He can hear it too,” she says, another statement that makes goosebumps rise on Emma’s arm. “That’s interesting. That doesn’t normally happen.”  
  
“I’m going to scream,” Emma warns, Kristoff muttering _please don’t_ under his breath. 

“The Lost Boys,” Tink explains. “That’s not simply a name. It’s a descriptor. They are, in fact, lost. Runaways and orphans, children with nowhere else to go and no one to cling to. They’ve been hurt. Lost things, quite literally. That’s usually how magic like this works.”  
  
“Yeah, so I’ve noticed. But that’s not--”  
  
“--Oh, too similar,” Ariel interrupts softly, a note of sadness in her voice. “You can hear it because you both lost something too. Tinker Bell’s right, that is weird. You’re each the thing that would pull you out of here, but losing the other draws you into the magic too.”

Emma gapes, breathing through her mouth, and she’s not sure if her fingers tighten or Killian’s do. It doesn’t matter. Again. She holds on with everything she’s got, _a team_ and that’s simplifying the whole thing. Her shirt is still far too wet to get more particular. 

“Well, that’s absolutely awful isn’t it?” Killian asks, drawing an almost manic laugh out of Emma and it isn’t easy to twist back into his chest. She does it anyway, his cheek resting on top of her hair. It makes it almost easy to feel the way his lips quirk up. 

“It is admittedly kind of depressing,” Kristoff agrees. 

“The island doesn’t want you here, Savior,” Tink adds, Emma doing her best to ignore anything except her rather pitiful attempts to breathe when her nose is still pushed into Killian’s jacket. “It despises everything you are, wants to rip that out of you and stomp on it.”  
  
“Is the island capable of that?” Ariel asks. “Like...you know, physically?”  
  
Tink sighs. “The less time you spend here the better.”  
  
“So we should probably keep moving, don’t you think?” Emma mutters, glancing back over her shoulder. “How far are we?”  
  
“Oh, wasn’t that obvious? We’re here.”  
  
There are several pointed curses from all of them, Tink’s expression unchanged when she points a finger in front of her. And Emma has no idea how she missed a giant skull-shaped _thing_ , but there it is and she can just make out the flickers of firelight in the left eye. 

“That’s menacing. Is it actually called Skull Rock?”  
  
“That’s what the Lost Boys call it,” Tink says, stepping around Emma and Killian with a lightness that’s probably genetic. “We’re going to have to be quick. Blackbeard doesn’t have any magic, but the island has taken a liking to him and--”

“--You know this probably would have been good to know when we were still in the air,” Emma cuts in. Her magic is thrumming, matching up with every swipe of Killian’s thumb. Ariel keeps bobbing on the balls of her feet, sticks and half-dead leaves crunching under toes, while Kristoff twists his sword in the air. 

“He’s gotten some of the Lost Boys on his side,” Tink continues, “and there will probably be traps going forward, so just watch your--”

She takes another step, and that’s as far as she gets before everything goes to complete and utter shit. 

Emma is not surprised. She almost expects it at this point. 

Tink’s cry is piercing, suddenly several feet in the air, and there are shadows moving towards them, none of them particularly large because they are _children_ , but they’ve all got some form of weapon and Emma waves her hand when one of them tries to bludgeon her in the side of the head with a makeshift axe.

“Fucking a,” she gasps, the kid in front of her freezing immediately. He’s covered in dirt and there are more than a few scrapes on him, bits of dried blood on his cheek and obvious through the rip in his shirt. 

There are more of them. Kids of varying shapes and sizes and ages, some of them looking hardly old enough to cross the street on their own, all of the armed and angry, a snarl on their lips and cry that echoes off the leaves. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Emma chants. She’s not sure how her back finds Killian’s, but the roll of his shoulder blades into hers is almost comforting, even when that means he’s blocking a blow from a Lost Boy and Tink is trying to shout from the net she’s still trapped in. 

“That about sums it up, doesn’t it, love?”  
  
“Oh my God, you do not get make jokes now.”  
  
“Defense mechanism.”  
  
“Excuses,” she corrects, kicking out at the latest kid who lunges at her. “Ah, damn it!”

It lasts forever. At least it feels that way, a never-ending stream of kids masquerading as warriors and they’re not exactly doing a good job of fending them off, but Emma can’t see any blood and that’s probably a positive. 

Until.  
  
It’s always an until. 

The firelight in Skull Rock flickers again, doused suddenly. The Lost Boys freeze. And Emma doesn’t dare breathe, certain something absolutely horrible is going to happen and the footsteps that move towards them sound like they’re trying to prove something. 

Killian laughs. 

The sound reverberates around them, bounces between tree trunks and off piles of dirt, wraps around weapons and drifts in between stars that are, maybe, just a shade brighter than they were that morning. He keeps going. Every deep breath just fuels more laughter, head thrown back with the force of it. 

The footsteps stop. 

And Edward Teach does not look great.

Emma doesn’t remember much about him, just how much she detested him and what he’d done to Killian when they were children. She always thought he was taller. He looks incredibly slight now, as if he’s been sliced and diced and stripped of any control. His coat hangs on his shoulders, far too big with more than a few stains dotting the fabric, and the feather in his hat is pitifully limp. There are bags under his eyes, a pastiness to his skin because he hasn’t seen the sun in quite some time. 

He looks like the kind of man who would run away to Neverland. 

“Killian Jones,” he croaks, and Emma wonders when the last time he actually spoke was. “I thought you were dead.”  
  
“I think you wished I was dead,” Killian says. “Unfortunately for you, that’s been vastly over exaggerated. Where’s my ship, Teach?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“My ship. What have you done with it?”  
  
Blackbeard scoffs, lips twisting into a disbelieving smile. It makes Emma skin crawl. And she can’t stop the burst of light that flies out of her palm, lighting the entire clearing and it only makes it even more clear how young the children around them are. 

All of them with matching looks in their eyes. Empty. No hope, at all. 

“You came all this way to get your ship, Jones?” Blackbeard asks, and something is wrong. Emma doesn’t know what it is, but it’s something. “Even with her here?”  
  
“Leave her alone.”  
  
“No, no, no, this is---” Blackbeard makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a laugh, but it sounds a little deranged and Emma’s eyes flash towards Ariel. She keeps licking her lips. “You really never learn do you?”  
  
“Probably not,” Killian admits. He draws his sword slowly, the challenge obvious in the movement. “So I’ll ask you one more time. Where is my ship?”  
  
“It’s your fault, you know. Several times over.”  
  
“That’s not an answer, Teach.”  
  
Blackbeard’s smile widens, showing off teeth that are barely that. Ariel gags. “That’s not very kind, my dear. I remember you as well, the latch-on mermaid. Did you ever find your prince? I’m sure he’ll be very interested to discover where you are before I kill him.”  
  
“That’s suggesting you’re getting out of here,” Killian points out, the tip of his sword directed just above Blackbeard’s heart. “Last chance, Teach.”  
  
“There’s something different about you, boy. What is it?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“No, no, that’s not true. You were a force last I saw you. All power and fury, demanding information and prying it out of my goddamn head when I wouldn't give it to you.”  
  
Killian’s arm drops. It’s not much, but it’s there, half an inch and a bit of a give and Emma does her best to take a step in front of him without him knowing. “Stop that,” he mumbles, barely opening his mouth when his gaze darts her direction. “You’re not winning, Teach. You’re stuck here. So you might as well atone for your sins now.”  
  
“You think I’m just going to admit everything that’s happened since you gave up your only bartering chip? Please,” Blackbeard chuckles. “No, no, you’ve not learned a single thing since you were a lad. Far too hopeful, you were. Aiming above your station. You know what happens when you get that close to the sun? You burn.”  
  
Emma will, eventually, get better control of her emotions. In the moment it doesn’t matter. In the moment she swipes both her arms through the air, a rush of wind and another surge of light and Blackbeard is pinned against the nearest tree, laugh turning into breathless gasps when Killian’s sword presses against the jut of his throat. 

“How did you get here, Teach?” he fumes, and more than a few of the Lost Boys start to mutter quietly. As if they’re worried about who’s in charge now.

“You know the answer to that.”  
  
“The Dark One?”  
  
“That was you, my boy.”  
  
Killian growls when he pushes his sword forward, the sudden red on his sword a stark contrast to the sheen of the metal. “Not yours,” he says. “Never.”  
  
“No, that’s true isn’t it? You were always hers.” Blackbeard jerks his head up, a quick gasp when it only serves to cut him again. “The stories were rather epic after you left, your highness. Captain Hook and his lost love. How absolutely disgusting.”  
  
Emma lifts her eyebrows, and there’s no electricity in this realm, but she feels like she could single-handedly charge the entire Eastern seaboard. “Where’s the Jolly?”

“In my pocket.”  
  
“Wait, what did you say?” Ariel balks, and Blackbeard grins triumphantly. 

“My pocket. The right one, just inside my jacket.” He winks at Emma, Killian’s sharp inhale far too loud. “If you’d be so kind, my dear. I don’t really trust, Jones, you understand.”

She glares, stepping forward anyway and reaching around the lapel. Her fingers curl around a bottle, tugging lightly and whatever noise she makes when her brain processes what she’s holding is not dignified at all. 

Because Blackbeard wasn’t lying. 

It’s right there. In front of her. The Jolly Roger. In a bottle. 

“What the fuck,” Emma breathes. “How did that--”  
  
“--I told you, Savior. This is his fault. He found me, wanted that bean, to get to you, and offered me the Jolly in return. How was I supposed to say no?” He grins when she continues to glare, whatever emotion has appeared in the back of her throat far too large to swallow. “Well, I got the Jolly. Finally. The ship I’d wanted for years, what should have been rightfully mine, the truest pirate on the seas and--”

He groans when Killian moves again. “That is not an insult, lad. It’s a fact. And making it difficult to tell the story.”  
  
“Get on with it.”  
  
“Well, as I say. I got the ship, the lad got the bean and little did I know who I was dealing with at the time. I admit, that was my own fault, but would you guess it, several years later, my crew and I are somewhere off the coast of DunBroch when we’re boarded.”  
  
“In the middle of the water?” Emma asks.

“Smart lass. Yes, in the middle of the water. She seemed to be able to control it.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Ursula,” Killian answers, head darting towards Emma. Her jaw drops. “I was gone already and--damn, Arthur was right.”  
  
“Ah,” Blackbeard says. “Is that you how you figured it out? A suggestion, my dear. Never start drinking in Camelot. That lot knows how to hold their ale.”  
  
“What did Ursula do?”  
  
Blackbeard clicks his tongue when she refuses to banter with him. “Is that not obvious? The former Dark One made it very clear that he wasn’t pleased I had helped Jones get out of this realm. Of course I was none the wiser at the time, but that didn’t make much of a difference. That man--Rumplestiltskin, he prided himself on the sanctity of the deal, said I should have been more astute and it was my own fault, what happened next.”  
  
“Which was?”  
  
“That sea witch transformed my ship. Shrunk it down and stuffed it into the nearest bottle that had been rolling around on deck. She left us there, in the middle of the bloody ocean, to drown like rats. Not a second thought. And it was all Jones’ fault, the whole thing.” 

Emma blinks. Again. And again. She’s certain, if she keeps doing it, the scene will change or the story will change, but nothing ever does and Tink is still hanging in a net, several dozen Lost Boys circling around them and they need to get out of there. 

She tightens her hold on the bottle.

“So, now, you see, I’m here,” Blackbeard continues, “because I realized what Jones was. Only, that’s not entirely true anymore is it?” He widens his eyes at the silence he gets in response. “Fascinating, the lives of the magical. And now you’ve given me the perfect opportunity to get out of here. I thought I’d be stuck after I found that one portal in Wonderland. But, if you’re here there’s nothing for me to be worried about and I’ll just--” 

He ducks, a grunt of pain when the blade scrapes against his skin, but his arm finds its way around Emma, yanking her against his chest and she can feel the point of a dagger digging into the small of her back. 

Killian freezes. “No,” he whispers, part objection and bigger plea. “No, that’s--”  
  
“--Oh, I think it is. Because she’s magic. Everyone’s always known that, known what she’s meant to the kingdom and what she’s supposed to do. So, I’ll take your princess, Jones. I’ll take your ship. I’ll get back to Misthaven and you can...well you can stay here and rot, for all I care.”

He ducks his his head, lips close enough to Emma’s ear that she recoils in disgust. “Let’s go, princess. I’ve got some big plans I’d like to get underway.”

And, really, Ariel is getting very good at reading her mind. Which is all the more impressive because Emma is only half certain she’s even got the start of a plan, but then Blackbeard takes a step back and his foot lands directly in a puddle, the soft splash echoing louder than Killian’s objections and Kristoff’s curses and--

“The water,” Ariel nods, “Neverland water’s supposed to be magical.”

Emma closes her eyes. She’s sure she’ll be exhausted sooner rather than later, but for now she’s running on adrenaline and that look of panic etched on every inch of Killian’s face, one hand on the bottle and the other yanking Blackbeard’s arm down. 

“Stay,” Emma says, and it’s kind of a lame word really, but it also feels incredibly powerful as it flies out of her – an incantation and a command, royal and strong and every single one of the Lost Boys gasp at the burst of light around her. 

The water inches up Blackbeard’s leg, moving under fabric and between strands, wrapping around his calf and circling his knee. It latches onto the end of his jacket sleeves, pushes its way into pockets that are probably filled with other things. It hangs off the ends of his hair and pools on the top of his shoulders, drips off the bottom of his chin and the tip of his nose. 

And Emma watches the whole thing, fingers clutching him with a fury she’s never had before because she should have been quicker before and she was never going to let Killian hurt him.

Not anymore 

Not after the darkness. 

“What--what are you doing?” Blackbeard stammers. He tries to swat the water away, but they’re beyond that now and his whole body is starting to look a little more fluid. It shimmies and shakes, an unsteadiness that matches up almost perfectly with the chaos of Neverland. 

Fuck Neverland, honestly. 

“You know I’m actually really good at controlling magic,” Emma says lightly. “All kinds. It’s nuts. And, uh, well, you’re not exactly magical now, but your whole--” She waves her hands through the air, drops of water landing on Blackbeard’s lips. “--Being, I guess. It’s kind of tied to the magic of the island now.”  
  
His eyes widen. 

“Yeah,” Emma nods. “It’s not great, right? So here’s what’s happening. This magic? It’s shit. Total garbage, super terrible, really awful. All those words you’d think of when you think of bad stuff. And I’m not really that. The opposite, honestly. So, I’m almost honor-bound, I guess, to get rid of that. Except you’re here. Being a dick.”  
  
“What did you do?” Blackbeard roars. His whole body is soaked through now, clawing at his own clothes like getting rid of them will undo the magic. 

Emma grins. “Your whole being is wrapped up in that water now, Edward Teach. You’re not magic, but your continued existence is dependent on it. You need it to stay alive. But, and this is the kicker, if you leave Neverland, try to get off this island again, not only will you destroy that magic, which, you know, I’ll take--but you’ll also destroy yourself. So. You’re stuck.”

Ariel lets out a whoop, punching the air in a way that makes her look a bit like an 80s teen movie protagonist. That’s another misplaced reference. 

And Blackbeard falls to his knees immediately, scraping at the dirt and cursing Emma loud enough that the trees around them shake. There’s a flutter of wings as well, a heavy breathing that Emma thinks is her at first. 

It’s not. 

It’s Killian. 

She spins back towards him, finally getting her throat to cooperate and she can’t read the expression on his face. One of them probably moves first. It continues to not matter, not when his body heaves against her, lips peppered across her hair until she loses track of how many times he makes contact and--  
  
“We have to get the fuck off this island.”

Emma hums. “Yeah, ok.”

She’s just about to wave Tink back down when she hears a soft cough behind her, jerking around so quickly she nearly falls over and the cough is a boy and the boy is looking at her and he’s not trying to attack her.

“I, uh--” he starts, digging the toe of a worn boot into the ground. “I just didn’t know if you wanted to see the other grown up that’s here?”  
  
Kristoff drops his sword. “What other grown up?”  
  
Emma doesn’t want to hope. She doesn’t. She wants to stay cautious and in firmly entrenched in the maybe, the quiet comfort of a kid who was lost and can still hear that sound, but she’s not that kid anymore and she’s here to save everyone. 

The kid nods. “On the other side of the island. That man put her there.”  
  
“What man?”  
  
“He wasn’t here long, but he said his name was Rumplestiltskin.”  
  
“Fuck,” Emma mutters, wincing at the curse. “Ok, ok, yeah. Do you have a name, kid?”  
  
He doesn’t answer at first and for one painstakingly horrible moment Emma wonders if she’s overstepped and they’re going to have to fight their way out of there again. The kid smiles. “Henry,” he says. “My name is Henry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picture it. Earlier this year me. Planning this story. And being like...what if we added Henry? Is that insane? Too late, do it anyway. Because that's pretty much exactly what happened. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	21. Chapter 21

“Wait, wait, wait, where are we going?”  
  
Emma can’t move her feet quickly enough, far too many vines and low-hanging branches, but this kid – _Henry_ , he said his name is Henry – appears to be picking up speed the more they walk. He doesn’t actually answer her, just nods his head and flashes a smile that’s probably supposed to be comforting. 

She kind of feels like her eyes are going to fall out of her head. 

And neither Killian nor Kristoff have sheathed their swords.   
  
“Is this a good idea?” Ariel asks, clearly trying to keep her voice low, but it comes out like a hiss and the whole jungle is making enough noise that Emma swears she can feel it reverberating in her. As if the whole jungle is entirely pissed off by what they’re doing.

She shrugs. “Do we have another choice? I mean, if there’s another person on this island--”  
  
“--Anna,” Kristoff cuts in, and Emma doesn’t have the heart to correct him. She’s doing her best to temper her own expectations, mostly because she’s a little worried that she’s going to break her ankle if they keep moving at this pace, but her eyes keep flitting towards Killian anyway and every bit of hope Emma swears is coursing through her system is reflected back on his face. 

“We don’t know that,” she mutters. A branch nearly slams into her face. “Ah, fucking--ok, let’s just…” 

She can’t see Henry anymore. 

The birds are definitely getting louder, caws and cries and several different varieties of squawks, like they’re communicating or sending out warnings and Killian’s eyes widen when Emma glances his direction again. 

“I don’t know,” he says, answering a question she hasn’t bothered to ask. 

Kristoff practically growls. “Communicating silently is not helpful. And where in all hells did that kid go now?”  
  
“You’ve got to stop using that,” Killian mutters. “The all hells. It’s just...it doesn’t make any sense at all.”   
  
“And you’ve got a lot of experience with hell, do you, Captain?”

Killian’s eyes go impossibly narrow, all threat and a rather jarring lack of hope. “Stop talking.”  
  
Emma can’t help the sigh that falls out of her. It’s a strange sound, not entirely disappointment or anything except complete exhaustion, the magic in her turning to a low simmer or some other cooking pun that’s entirely out of place in the middle of goddamn Neverland. She feels like her skin is bubbling, steady ripples of power and emotion, a muddled mix of want and desire, a frustration she hasn’t been able to shake for what’s felt like years because those same years have been filled with curses and misunderstanding and she just wants to sit down. 

She wants to sit and sleep and _be_ , for just a few moments. 

It’s not an option. 

Her option is Savior. And prophecy. Her option is magic and control and repenting for every single mistake she’s ever made. 

Apparently. 

A never-ending stream. 

Apparently. 

“Swan,” Killian murmurs, and she doesn’t remember him turning in front of her. His gaze has shifted again, soft in a way that only really happens when he’s looking at her and whatever sound she makes when he brushes his finger across her cheek is as far removed from _hero_ as it is possible to be. 

“I’m ok.”  
  
“No, try that again.”   
  
“Fine.”   
  
“Emma.”   
  
“Fine,” she snaps, and it’s not fair. It’s the audible sound of all those emotions, sharp and abrasive and a dozen other decidedly negative adjectives that would also be appropriate when describing kitchen utensils. 

She licks her lips when Killian blinks, a heavy silence that isn’t right either. The birds are far too loud for anything to be silent. His thumb is still on her cheek, a light pressure against her skin that Emma tries to focus on because everything else seems to be spinning and twisting, her eyes unable to fully adjust to the sky and the stars. 

He smiles at her. 

Not much, not really, just one side of his mouth tugging up, but it’s there and Emma sighs again. Her head falls forward slightly, the soft brush of Killian’s lips ghosting over her hair, trying to occupy the same few inches of space he is. She squirms against his chest, like that will let her move into him or something equally absurd, but Emma wants, wants, _wants_ and she always has.   
  
Probably more than she should. 

“Talk to me,” Killian says softly, and she nearly laughs. It comes out far more strangled than she’d like it to. 

“That’s not fair at all.”  
  
“Desperate times and all that.”

“Have we reached that point?”  
  
“Eh. You’re avoiding, love.”   
  
“I’m fine,” Emma promises, and it’s only kind of a lie that’s only kind of obvious because he clicks his tongue in something resembling reproach. She tilts her head up, chin jutting out.”Not good, huh?”   
  
“Really, really bad.”   
  
“Exceptionally bad, honestly,” Ariel agrees. She’s leaning back against a tree, one leg pulled up slightly, and Kristoff only looks a little put-out by the whole scene. “Still crazy impressive magic, though. Are we trusting the kid, then?”   
  
Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat – neither an agreement nor otherwise. It hurts. Of course it does. And she glances towards Kristoff, his face going slack, disappointment wrapping around both his shoulders like it’s a visible thing. 

Killian kisses her hair again. 

She’s lost track of that particular number. 

“I don’t know why I know,” Kristoff whispers. “And it’s--it’s crazy to think that it could be her, but--”  
  
“--When you love someone, you know,” Killian says, and Emma’s magic jumps. It makes her eyes fall shut, a blast of adrenaline to every single nerve ending she’s got, and her muscles feel like they’re never going to recover, but the whole thing is kind of romantic and maybe they can win on the power of positive thinking alone. 

Mary Margaret’s going to be very disappointed she missed all of this. 

Kristoff nods. “Yeah, exactly that.”  
  
“Oh, that was nice, Hook,” Ariel adds, and the words only sound a little teasing. “Tink? Anything to add?”   
  
Emma’s head jerks up at the inclusion of Tink, who’s barely strung two words together since they got her out of the trap. She’s staring at her shoes, fingers wringing together with enough nervous energy that it could probably do serious damage. 

“This is the part where you’re supposed to answer,” Emma says. Nothing. Tink doesn’t lift her gaze or untangle her fingers, just keeps looking down, shoulders shaking when her breathing turns slightly erratic. 

And Emma’s drifting very close to the precipice of _furiously annoyed_ when she hears the crash behind her, hands flying up and swords moving on the edge of her vision, Ariel scrambling to get back on her feet with a distinct lack of grace. 

Henry blinks. “What’s taking you guys so long?”  
  
“Gods,” Emma grumbles, hand flying to her chest and the ring hanging there. “Ok, kid, first rule of this--”   
  
“--Operation?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Any good journey should have a name,” Henry says reasonably, and whatever noise Killian and Ariel make is oddly similar. “That’s how all the stories go.”   
  
Her magic does something. Emma has no idea _what_ it does, but it leaves goosebumps on her skin and prickles of feeling in the tips of her fingers, an understanding she can’t place because she absolutely does not understand what the hell is going on. 

Killian shrugs. “I’ve got no bloody idea.”  
  
“The mind reading thing,” Emma mutters, but she’s still kind of charmed by it. Always. Indefinitely. Forever. 

Henry’s mouth twists when it’s clear they aren’t paying explicit attention to him, Emma mumbling a quiet apology, when she reaches a hand out towards him. He flinches. And, she supposes, that’s understandable. He’s been on that island for the Gods know how long, for reasons she hasn’t gotten around to asking about yet and whatever tears dot her vision are not for her. 

They’re for this place. 

And this magic.

And another group of people she has to save. 

“What should we call this, Henry?” Ariel asks, doing her best to redirect the conversation with forced lightness. 

He brightens immediately, a flash of smile that’s far more _child_ than anything else and Emma is going to do something exceptionally royal to pay Ariel back for all of this. “Oh, that’s easy,” Henry says. “Operation: save Joan.”   
  
Kristoff is going to do permanent damage to his sword if he keeps dropping it like that. 

“What did you say?” he rasps, trying, without much success, to wrap his fingers back around the dirt-covered hilt. 

Henry furrows his brows. That’s fair. They’re not doing a very good job of presenting themselves as competent adults. “Joan,” he says slowly. “That’s her name.”  
  
“Where do we go, Henry? How far away are we?’ Can we get there now?”   
  
“Not that far. But, um---” He shakes his head, limbs flailing slightly when Ariel mutters another fish-related curse under her breath. “There’s some stuff.”   
  
“Stuff. What kind of stuff?”   
  
“Neverland stuff.”   
  
“So not good stuff,” Killian suggests, Henry humming in agreement. “Lady Bell,” he continues. “Did you have some kind of idea about this not so good stuff that we’re about to encounter?”   
  
Tinker Bell tenses. It’s, hands down, the strangest sentence Emma has ever thought. 

Which is really saying something at this point. 

“Oh, that’s not an immediate answer either,” Ariel points out. “Should we guess? Would that make it more fun, then?”  
  
Kristoff groans. “Can we not guess? Do we have to fight something? Destroy it? Slaughter things? I’ll be honest, I’m prepared to slaughter more than a few things.”

Killian scoffs at that, but Emma doesn’t look away from Tink – she’s still not breathing evenly, inhales that are far too large and exhales that seem to rattle their way out of her. She keeps chewing on her lower lip, alternating between twisting her fingers together and tugging on the side of her dress.

“It’s not a something, is it?” Emma asks, and Tink’s eyebrows jump. “You said it already. The island makes you relive your worst memories. So what do we have to do now? Watch it, instead of smell it?”  
  
Tink shakes her head. “No. And we haven’t timed it exactly right.”   
  
“That’s not my fault,” Henry grumbles, digging the toe of his shoe into the dirt. Emma’s heart lurches. “And we’re pretty close, Tink! It’s almost midnight.”   
  
“How can you tell?” Ariel mutters. 

Henry’s whole body shifts. He looks taller, suddenly, shoulders rolling back and it is a genuine miracle Emma’s heart manages to stay in her body. Because she knows that look. She knows every single one of the emotions that play across his face, has lived them, memories that have been knocking on the back of her consciousness since they’d gotten close enough to this infernal island for its magic to reach her. 

Alone. Shivering. Without a second glance or an understanding look. 

_Lost_. 

A lost boy who’s been in Neverland far longer than he should. 

She takes a step forward, slow and as unthreatening as she can make it, both hands held up like she’s approaching a frightened animal instead of a ten-year-old kid. His eyes widen, body tensing and mouth parting with a soft gasp as soon as Emma’s fingers curl around his shoulder. 

“How long have you been here, Henry?” 

He shakes his head, barely enough movement to even shift the far-too-long strands of hair near his brows. “I don’t know.”  
  
“But you’re not...you want to help us. What about Blackbeard?”   
  
“Him?” Henry squawks, and that head shake is a little more confident. Emma can feel Killian shift behind her, a heat that’s probably not actually there reaching out and brushing against the back of her neck. It takes her a second to realize it’s magic. Again, or whatever. “Nah. He wasn’t good. He was like the other one.”   
  
“Rumplestiltskin?”   
  
Henry hums, and Emma knows she doesn’t imagine the way he twists into her hand. “He wasn’t here long. He brought Joan and he--” His whole body shakes when he shivers. “He had other people with him. Bad people.”   
  
“And you can just tell who’s good and who’s bad, huh?” Killian asks. His hook finds the small of Emma’s back again, a slight press into her skin that might be a question or more misplaced hope. She leans back. 

“Sometimes,” Henry shrugs. “Mostly I’m just really good at figuring out where people fit in.”  
  
“Into what?”   
  
“The story.”   
  
Emma is thankful for the hook. She’s fairly positive it’s the only thing that’s keeping her upright, resting most of her weight on it and the arm that wraps around her suddenly, Killian’s chest shifting against her back as soon as she stumbles backwards. 

“What do you mean, Henry?” she asks, only a little guilty when she ignores Kristoff’s cries of protest. She knows this is important. 

It’s definitely getting brighter out. And later. This island makes absolutely no sense. 

Henry makes a wholly _child-like_ sound, lips curling and hands waving through the air. “I’m good at telling stories,” he says, and Emma has to look down to make sure her magic hasn’t turned her phosphorescent. She’s only glowing slightly. So, that’s a win. “Ms. Joan likes them.”   
  
“You talked to her a lot?” Kristoff croaks, another shrug and Henry’s starting to look almost comfortable around them. “What did you talk about?”   
  
“Oh, loads of stuff. She told me about the trees where she was from. How different they were from here. The leaves don’t hang like ours, you know?” 

Kristoff nods, a quiet hum that’s more hope and Tink’s eyes are starting to resemble pinball machines. Something about this is wrong. 

Emma wishes that would stop happening. 

“She’d tell me things and I’d put them in my story,” Henry continues. “It doesn’t always work though. That’s what Rumplestiltskin said when he found me. He said I wasn’t ready.”  
  
“Ready for what?” Killian asks, and there’s no mistaking the venom in his voice. 

“He never really explained it. But I think it’s what I can do.”  
  
“And that is?”   
  
“Tell things,” Henry answers simply. “Some of the other boys like it. When they’re not--well, can you hear them?” Killian nods. “They’re sad and lonely and that makes it difficult for them to believe sometimes. They forget.”   
  
“Forget,” Ariel echoes. “Forget what?”   
  
“Home. Everybody should have a home, don’t you think?”   
  
“I do.”   
  
“And what about you, Henry?” Emma asks. “You never forgot home?”   
  
He shakes his head. “Ms. Joan helped. She’d tell me about her home and it--it sounded like the place I was from. So I’d put it in the story. Mixed our homes and I tried to get us there sometimes, but I don’t think Neverland really liked it much. It always hurt when I couldn’t do it the right way.”   
  
“Wait, wait, I’m confused,” Ariel says, Kristoff muttering _that makes two of us_ behind her. “Henry, do you have magic?”   
  
That makes him freeze again, an obvious surprise and possible overstep because he kind of looks freaked out. “No,” he says quickly. “I just--it doesn’t work. Not always. I couldn’t get Ms. Joan back home.”   
  
“What did you try to do?” Kristoff asks. His voice isn’t quite as gruff as it’s been, a quiet entreaty to it that makes Emma wonder how her heart is going to survive this entire trip. 

“She told me about the trees.”  
  
“Yeah, we get that, kid,” Emma mutters. “But you said you could take what people told you and put it in your story. Does your story---is it alive?”   
  
Henry’s lips press together tightly, the clench of his teeth obvious and no one has ever blinked that much in the history of any realm, magic or otherwise. “Ok, ok,” Emma presses, trying to figure out what question to ask next, but none of this makes much sense and--”When the Dark--” She nearly bites her tongue in half, a grunt and gasp, the press of Killian’s hook cold when it finds its way under her shirt. “When Rumpelstiltskin was here, did he say anything about you having magic?”   
  
“No.”   
  
Emma narrows her eyes, the skin on her cheek tingling like the lie has reached out and slapped her. “Let’s do that one more time, huh? When you tell these stories, can you feel something? Like--like it’s warm?”   
  
Henry stares at her like she’s crazy. That’s fair. Emma feels a little crazy.

“I just talk,” Henry sputters, voice rising until it cracks on the final few letters. “I--I listen to Ms. Joan when I can get in and---that Rumplestiltskin he didn’t like her. He said she had to stay here so no one would know the truth and the man that was with him--”  
  
“--Just one man?   
  
“I didn’t like him.”   
  
“Neither did we,” Killian mumbles. “He wrote her--Ms. Joan, I mean, did he write her into wherever you’re leading us?”   
  
Henry blinks. And looks a little impressed. Killian may actually be blushing. “Yeah,” Henry breathes. “He--he had this pen and he didn’t like me. Rumplestiltskin thought I was interesting, but that other man. He looked at me like I was wrong.”   
  
“Not wrong, kid,” Emma promises. “Just better than him.”   
  
Ariel sighs. “Does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?”   
  
“That’s how he got to the Land Without Magic,” Killian explains. “Rumplestiltskin. He found this man--Isaac, who could write people into situations. The kind of magic that could change everything, cross realms and land right inside the Storybrooke town line. That’s how it worked, isn’t it, Swan?”   
  
“He was very dramatic though,” Emma grouses. “Lots of rolling fog and bright lights to make it look like Rumplestiltskin was more powerful than he was.”   
  
“Hold on, hold on,” Kristoff stammers. “You’re telling me this Isaac idiot is the one who brought Anna here? Why?”   
  
“That’s probably a question she could answer,” Emma says, expecting the glare she gets for her bit of misplaced sarcasm. 

She exhales, mind still racing and jumping from point to point and she can’t quite figure out _what_ Henry is. So, naturally, Killian asks about it. 

“Henry,” he says slowly, and she can practically hear the metaphorical gears creaking when his tongue swipes the front of his teeth, “where did you come from? It wasn’t this realm, was it?”  
  
Emma’s left leg buckles. Just her left leg. It is absurd. 

And Henry looks torn somewhere between dazed and astounded, mouth hanging open and face turning as hopeful as anything Emma has ever seen. He’s practically radiating with it, a low thrum of noise that makes the birds shift above them and the leaves flutter around them and it clicks. Quickly. Suddenly. _Obviously_. 

“He believes in what he’s saying,” Emma whispers, Killian’s quiet hum of agreement barely audible over the rush of her own magic and the continued twist of her left knee. “That’s what it is, isn’t it?”  
  
“It’s an educated guess on my part, Swan, but, uh--aye, I think that’s what it is.”   
  
“You’re all magical jerks who communicate in code,” Ariel shouts. “What does believing in things have to do with anything? And where is Henry from?”   
  
Henry shuffles again, rocking his weight between his feet. “I hadn’t been there long,” he says. “There were a lot of houses and I was--I was tired of it. I wanted a family. I wanted...I wanted someone to want me, but this place it wasn’t that. It was bad. It was dark and cold and the grown-ups there didn’t seem to really care what happened. So, um---”   
  
“--Did you run?” Emma asks, already knowing the answer. Henry nods. “Where?”   
  
“As far as I could go. But it was cold and I was hungry and I--I heard something.”

“What kind of something?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Henry admits. “But it was loud and it was...it scared me. I didn’t really know where I was anymore and I wanted to figure out what was happening.”   
  
“Brave lad,” Killian mutters, drawing a loud scoff out of Ariel. Tink is staring at the sky now – like she’s waiting for something to happen. “What did you see?”   
  
“A giant circle. Right in the middle of the ground. And I--I thought I saw someone walking away, thought they might be able to help me, so I kept walking and I just...got yanked back.”   
  
Emma wants to say something other than _what_. She really does, but that seems impossible and her lips are already parting to form the word again. The word never makes it out of her throat. 

Killian’s whole body sags, the burst of air that flies out of his chest practically dripping with regret and it clicks. Again. And even worse. 

“That’s not possible,” he argues, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself. “That’s not how portals work. I’m not--”  
  
“That’s not your fault, babe,” Emma says. She knows the sentiment falls on deaf ears, can see the way his face crumples as soon as she turns towards him, a hand on his chest and the other hanging in the air just above his jaw. 

“It was always dicey magic, Hook,” Ariel reasons. Killian doesn’t move. It doesn’t look like he’s breathing. “What about Ursula, though?”  
  
Emma blinks her. “What about her?”   
  
“Well, she’s able to control the water, right? That’s why I knew she’d be able to find Lake Nostos and make sure it got the bean back, but what if she did something else?”   
  
“Aside from cursing me?” Killian growls, and Ariel does not look impressed.   
  
“Yes, Hook, aside from that. Nostos brings things back to life, makes them powerful again. What if that did something else to the bean, something even Ursula didn’t expect?”   
  
“Like keeping a portal open longer than usual?” Emma ventures. “That seems like kind of a reach, doesn’t it?”   
  
“I’m trying to find some bright spots here.”   
  
Emma sighs, her own brand of regret in the sound. “Yeah, I know. I just--oh damn.”   
  
“That sounds promising.”   
  
“Henry, how soon after you got here did Ms. Joan show up?

“Not long,” Henry says, screwing one eye shut when he tries to remember. “It’s tough to keep track of time here, though.”  
  
“Right, right, ok, so, bright spot? I think the portal stayed open for Henry.”   
  
Killian makes a contrary noise, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek when he shakes his head. “Swan, that doesn’t--”   
  
“--Ok, if you're going to do this whole blaming yourself thing for the rest of the day, I’m going to get really annoyed.” His tongue moves. It’s distracting. “He just told us he was looking for a way out of the piece of garbage situation he was in. You gave him that, babe.”   
  
“And sent him to Neverland!”

“But that didn’t stop him believing,” Emma argues, and she can feel it, the certainty that she’s _right_ surging through every single organ she has. Her fingers brush across Killian’s cheek. “And I think Ariel’s on the right track. Nostos brings things back, makes them strong and--” She twists, smiling at Henry. “It made your ability to believe even stronger, kid. So strong that you could bring it to life, visualize that and keep the other people here believing too. And, I think, help us all get out of here.”

Emma’s smile is wide enough that it hurts her cheeks, a quick nod like that’s proven her point and no one says anything. Not a single word. That, admittedly, kind of sucks. 

“You think I’ve got magic?” Henry whispers, barely mumbling the words out. 

Emma blinks back more tears that aren’t for her, far too much prophecy and fate and everything falling into place because she’s fairly certain this kid has been waiting for them. She breathes deeply, doing her best to look comforting when she moves forward again, dropping to her knees and ignoring how quickly the mud moves through the fabric of her pants. 

Henry licks his lips, refusing to meet her gaze, until––Emma exhales, measured and, at least, four seconds long, lifting her hand to cup his cheek. And that’s all it takes. His legs give up and his body shakes, soft sobs because no one should be on this island and she probably doesn't have any right to be as proud of him as she is. 

She manages to keep her balance when Henry falls forward, head burrowing into the side of her neck when Emma wraps both her arms around his middle. She’s never been particularly good at this – comfort or support, but the words fall out of her with relative ease, the hand that brushes across the back of her hair making it a little easier. 

“It’s ok,” Emma promises, letting her fingers drag up Henry’s back until she can cup his head, holding her against him like that’ll prove how much she means it. “It’s going to be ok. Nothing is going to happen to you anymore.”

“We won’t let it,” Killian adds. He has to shift his coat slightly to move down to their level, and it shouldn’t make Emma’s magic leap the way it does. That’s never really mattered though. “I’m so sorry, my boy.”

Her magic is a goddamn symphony – soft light at the end of her hair and the tips of her fingers, circling around her wrist and ghosting over the lapels of a coat she may actually be starting to like again. Time is cyclical like that, she supposes, but Emma’s mostly focused on possessive pronouns and possibilities and she’s apparently thinking in alliteration now. 

“Ok,” Henry nods against Emma’s collarbone, leaving damp marks on her shirt and her skin. She doesn’t let go of him. “But---”  
  
“But?” 

“Even if what you think is right and I can--” He waves his hands over Emma’s head, nearly elbowing her in the process. “The stories didn’t always work. It’d be kind of...half there. I could never actually get anyone out of here.”  
  
“Did you try?” Kristoff asks archly, Emma twisting to glare at him. He blinks. 

“Sometimes,” Henry says. “But it’s hard. It’s--”  
  
“--Everyone needs to believe him,” Emma whispers, wonder clouding her voice when she realizes what she’s got to do. “And he just needs a little spark.”   
  
Kristoff kicks something. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”   
  
“Swan--” Killian starts, but she shakes her head deftly. The exhaustion is still clinging to her, trying to pull on her and douse the bits of light she’s created, a mix of her own fear and worry and whatever this goddamn island is capable of. She tugs Henry back against her side. 

“No, no, this is part of the gig, right?”  
  
“It’s not exactly top-billing.”   
  
“That was funny.”   
  
“Aye, it happens.” He sighs, fingers tugging on the back of his hair, and Emma knows he wants to argue more. He doesn’t. So, more points. 

Kristoff is going to single-handedly destroy the Neverland ecosystem. He lands another pretty impressive kick to the nearest tree trunk, staring at them with barely filtered anger. “Ok, now that we know the kid isn’t actually going to turn on us and will, maybe--”  
  
“--Definitely,” Emma interrupts sharply.   
  
“Can we go save my fiancé now?”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Henry cries, trying to use Emma as leverage and Killian has to catch him around the waist to keep him from running forward. “Are you the one Ms. Joan talked about?”  
  
He pauses mid-kick, Ariel’s laugh ringing out around them. “Oh, this is actually very romantic.”

“I hope so,” Kristoff breathes. “I--”  
  
Henry grins, nodding back towards the jungle he’s already ventured into. “It’s not that much farther and we’re running out of time.”   
  
And Emma is almost confident until she hears _those_ words, a flutter of dread in several different pulse points. Killian snaps his head towards her. “Menacing, huh?” he mutters, lacing his fingers through hers as they follow behind Henry. 

“A requirement it seems. Tinker Bell,” she adds, and the fairy nearly flies through the air. That’s probably an insensitive thing to think, really. “Why were you so worried all of this?”  
  
“I’m not.”   
  
“Oh, real bad. Definitely the worst lie we’ve heard so far today.”   
  
“By a rather large margin,” Killian chips in, lifting a branch up so Emma can duck underneath it without threat to any part of her face. “Your highness.”   
  
“Gods, the flirting has got to stop,” Ariel yells. She’s more than a few feet behind them, fingers curled around the back of Kristoff’s sword belt so she can keep her footing. 

“It really is kind of ridiculous,” Kristoff says. “And you’re giving Tinker Bell an opportunity to keep deflecting her answer.” He turns on Tink, several inches and muscle, Ariel still clinging to his back with an expectant look on her face. “I hate to suggest that your current record is not very good, ma’am, but--well, you did wind up in a net earlier today.”  
  
“I’m not leading you into a trap if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Tink sneers.   
  
“Strange, is that what it sounded like?”

“This is worse than their flirting,” Ariel mutters, an impatient-sounding Henry standing at the mouth of a cave that absolutely was not there two seconds earlier. “Holy seashells.”  
  
“Fisk, that doesn’t make sense,” Killian says. She snarls at him. 

“C’mon,” Henry yells, bobbing on the balls of his feet. “We don’t have a lot of time. The Echo Cave only opens when the stars are in the right spot.”  
  
Emma lifts her eyebrows, gaze darting back towards Tinker Bell. “And that position is midnight? Honestly?”   
  
“I didn’t make the rules.”   
  
“Just don’t like explaining them.”   
  
“Let’s get inside first.”

Emma grumbles, but she doesn’t actually object, following Henry and his shouts and she can’t help but let her shoulders sag when she takes in the scene around them. It is, in fact, a cave, high walls that shimmer slightly from residual condensation, stalagmites or the other ones, Emma’s not all that concerned with proper names, hanging from the ceiling and rising up from the ground. A ground that is very far beneath them. 

She can’t decide what to look at. Every thing appears worse than the last, a vast expanse of _nothing_ stretching out between the lot of them and the tiny pillar of rock in the middle of it all. There’s a cage sitting on top, a shadow that Emma can barely make out because the air is doing that _thing_ again and she’s having a difficult time staying focused. 

“Anna,” Kristoff cries, lunging forward and both Henry and Tink make matching sounds. She steps into his space, clearly mismatched, but that same determination from earlier is back in her gaze and his chest heaves against her palms. 

The cave walls shake. 

“Oh, bloody hell,” Killian mumbles, reaching for Emma. She squeezes his hand tight enough she’s likely leaving nail-shaped marks on his skin, but he doesn’t tell her to stop. 

“What is happening?” she asks. “How the hell are we supposed to get to her? Is that even actually Anna?”

“Kristoff?!”  
  
The voice isn’t loud – scratchy at best, but there’s enough emotion there that it’s obvious who’s fingers are wrapped around the rung of that cage. “Anna,” Kristoff shouts, another leap forward and he nearly steps on Tink in the process.

“You can’t do that,” she scolds, pressing up on her toes. So she can slap him. 

“Holy shit,” Emma gaps. “Alright, can we not resort to attacking each other?”  
  
“He can’t keep moving like that. The cave is going to react.”   
  
“The menacing has really got to stop. What does that mean?”   
  
“The cave,” Tink repeats, waving her free through the air. “Can you not feel that? “   
  
Emma opens her mouth – an undeniably snarky and less-than-thought-out retort on the tip of her tongue, but Killian answers before she can actually begin to formulate words. “I’ve heard of magic like that,” he mutters, a note of _something_ in his voice that makes her shiver. “Eye for an eye. Tit for tat.”   
  
“Wait, wait,” Emma stammers. “You think we have to give something up? Like what?”

Tink hisses. “A piece of yourself.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
“How do you do that?” Ariel asks, the question shaking its way out of her. It’s getting darker in that cave. And they’re running out of midnight. “This place doesn’t expect us to chop off our own limbs, does it?”   
  
“No, no, nothing that archaic.”   
  
“Small miracles,” Emma grumbles. She doesn’t remember moving, standing perpendicular to Killian with her shoulder pressing into his chest and his cheek resting on the side of her head. Her arms wrap around her middle, trying to contain the magic roaring in the very center of her, but that’s a fool’s errand and she understands. Again. It’s the worst. “It is like before, isn’t it? Reliving our worst memories?”   
  
“Like that,” Tink agrees. “It wants a secret. Your darkest secret, words and thoughts you’d never admit out loud.”   
  
“Fuck, that’s the most ridiculous sentence I’ve ever heard. Deepest secrets though? That seems a little--”   
  
“--I’ll go,” Ariel says, squaring her shoulders and Emma’s not entirely surprised. She takes a deep breath when she stops, pressing her arms into her side and nodding once. “I knew Hook was back. The entire royal family of Misthaven had returned and I--I thought about finding him, but it wasn’t until there was this,” she glances over her shoulder, flashing a tremulous smile, “another quest, right? And, I--I missed that. The danger and the darkness and all of it. I know I shouldn’t and you’re so much better now than you were, Hook. Gods, the way you look at her. It’s--but I thought maybe it could be like it had been. Adventure at our feet.”

The cave shakes again, but, this time, instead of sounding like it’s falling down on top of them, the ground stretches out, several feet of stone. It’s not nearly enough to get to Anna, but it’s proof positive that they’re on the right track. 

Kristoff curses quietly, pulling Ariel back away from the edge. “I want to save Arendelle,” he murmurs, “get rid of Hans and help Elsa reclaim her throne, but I’d give up all of that to keep Anna safe. I’d--the people in Arendelle couldn’t fight. Not after Elsa was gone and I think most of them just chose to believe she was dead. It was easier that way. I’d--I wouldn’t mind a little easy at this point.”

Another shake, more stone and there are tears on his face when he lifts his head, the weight of his admission leaving him gasping for air. 

“I hated her,” Tink says suddenly, an unexpected addition to whatever twisted honesty hour they’re staging. Emma’s eyes bug, a quick swallow and Killian gasps when her nails break the skin on his hand. “The blue fairy,” Tink continues. “She was--maybe still is, in charge of the fairies and I--I knew I was breaking the rules, but I didn’t care. I wanted to help and she wouldn’t let me. Now, I--” She pauses to drag the back of her knuckle under her eye. “Oh, I’ve been here too long,” she whispers. “I’d rip her wings off If I could and I’d enjoy it.”

The stone gets longer – nearly enough to reach Anna, but there’s still far too much open space and none of them do, actually, have wings. Emma’s mouth goes dry. “I don’t--” she starts, but Killian spins her back towards him, eyes impossibly blue and--  
  
“We didn’t have to break to it,” he says. “The curse. We could have stayed. In that realm and that city. Gone on that date. Ignored Times Square completely. I--almost wish we hadn’t. That it could just be that simple, two people who are--”   
  
“--Aren’t we?” Emma asks, not sure what her interruption will do to the magic or the goddamn cave, but she can’t quite cope with the way he’s staring at her, like this is the worst thing he’s ever thought. It may be the worst thing she’s ever thought. Her willingness to want it, to miss the jacket and the library chairs and cinnamon in her coffee. 

“I wasn’t here for the magic, Swan, but sometimes I wish the magic wasn’t here at all either.”  
  
His teeth find his lower lip as soon as the words are out of him, letters and syllables that stretch out that final bit of stone. Emma closes her eyes, letting go of a breath when her head drops forward, and for a moment they’re nothing more that that – tangled limbs and magic that was and wasn’t and won’t ever go away, her heart thumping in her chest hard enough that it feels like it’s bruising her rib cage. 

And that might not be wrong. 

“Ah,” Emma groans, hand flying towards her chest. “What the--” Her knees buckle with the flash of pain that sparks in her, another cry that sounds far too shrill to have actually come out of her.

Killian’s hand and hook move quickly, trying to pull her up or, at least, keep her steady, the fear that laces his voice sounding impossibly far away. “Swan, Emma, love, what--”  
  
“--The island doesn’t want her here,” Tink says simply. “And it will demand more than a simple statement from her to get across that bridge.”   
  
“Like hell, she’s crossing that bridge!”   
  
“Yes, not until she concedes to what the magic demands.”   
  
Killian gapes at her, unsteady breathing and anxious hands. The bridge shakes precariously, as if it’s trying to prove its under a time limit, and Henry groans softly behind them. “I think it’s almost over,” he warns. “Ms. Joan, can you get the door open?”   
  
Anna ignores the question. “Get out of here! All of you! If you get stuck in here--”   
  
“--I’m not leaving without you,” Kristoff objects. “That’s not an option!”   
  
He tries to run forward, but the first step on the bridge sends him flying back, a burst of magic that Emma swears she can hear and she can’t seem to do much more than claw at the sides of Killian’s jacket. “No, no,” she mumbles. “It’s got to be me.”

“Emma, no, we’re not doing this again,” Killian says. “You said you wouldn’t. No more sacrifices or danger and--”  
  
“--That’s not really how it works, babe. Part and parcel of the whole Savior thing.”   
  
“Fuck that, I’m not letting you go.”   
  
He says it with such conviction that, for a moment, Emma allows herself to believe it. She revels in it, the way he looks at her and that one piece of hair hanging across his forehead, still there, probably, just to torment her and make her pulse sputter. 

She tries to smile. It doesn’t feel like it works. 

“I love you.”  
  
“Swan, that’s--”   
  
She cuts him off, a quick press of her lips against his that leaves Killian half-chasing after her and Emma tries to focus on that when she turns back towards Tink. “What do you think I have to do, then?”   
  
“You’re stronger than the island,” Tink answers. “It doesn’t appreciate being challenged like that. So--” She nods towards the hand that has, somehow, wrapped around her ring. “You have to give up your biggest strength. And that’s how much you love, Emma.”   
  
The blood rushes from her face. She can feel it. It makes her vision swim and her head feel light, as if she’s running out of oxygen and that might not be all that far off, honestly, depending on what time it is and what kind of schedule this cave sticks to. 

Emma’s dimly aware of Killian objecting – voice rising and Ariel trying to calm him down, but the walls are starting to shake again and Henry’s looking more than a little anxious and she’s not entirely sure how to do this. So she acts on instinct. 

Again. And always. 

She takes a deep breath and plunges her own hand into her chest. 

It’s surprisingly not uncomfortable. 

Mostly there just doesn’t seem to be enough room for all the things Emma’s body is now trying to hold and the addition of her fist makes it difficult to actually take a deep breath, but all in all, it’s not the worst thing she’s ever done. 

Emma grits her teeth, twisting her hand and trying to find the right organ and she can’t help but gasp when something squishes in her grip. “Oh shit, that’s gross,” she mumbles, drawing an absurd sound out of Killian. 

“Are you kidding me, right now?”  
  
She clicks her tongue – mostly to focus on _that_ instead of the far-too-familiar sound of a heart being yanked out of a human being. Henry runs forward, slamming into Killian’s side with a trust that’s incredibly new, but also not entirely uncomfortable. 

Killian wraps his arm around his shoulders. 

And Emma barely notices, eyes falling towards the still-beating heart in her palm. It’s red, a brightness to it that gives her a questionable amount of confidence, but there are a few dots of darkness, a swirl in what may be the left ventricle that gives her pause and--

“You’ve got to go Savior,” Tink says, furtive glances towards the barely-open cave mouth. Anna is still trying to get them to leave. 

“Right, right,” Emma nods. She thrusts her hand forward, Killian’s eyes widening and brows jumping. “Here,” she says, well aware that the whole thing is kind of maudlin. “It’s always been yours anyway.”

Killian chokes out a laugh that’s more like another exhale, gaze going glossy. He holds his hand out anyway. “This better work.”  
  
“I’ll be right back.”   
  
And really they don’t have time. _Her heart is in his hand_. But Emma feels his hook catch her around the wrist, pulling her up short before she’s even gotten a step closer to the bridge and it’s a very strange thing. She tilts her head up, knowing that the kiss is inevitable and it’ll be good and comforting and a slew of other very positive and decidedly romantic adjectives. 

She doesn’t really feel them, though. 

She feels the brush of his lips, the quick swipe of his tongue, all desperate and terrified because this has to all end eventually, they’ll get to be two people and their own people and each other’s people, but that’s obviously not now and Emma has to think about how to respond. 

She pulls away, can see the flicker of disappointment in Killian’s gaze and her smile isn’t right. 

“Go,” Killian mutters. “I’ll--”

The rest of the sentence gets caught in another tremor, more than a few pieces of stone falling into the chasm underneath the bridge and Emma runs. She tries to keep her weight on her toes, darting forward quick enough that her calves ache and her lungs burn, skidding to a stop in front of a woman with dark bags under her eyes and dirt caked under her nails. 

Her hair still manages to catch a bit of light though. 

And some of that light is coming from between Emma’s fingers. 

“Are you Anna?” she asks, a silly question that warrants an even sillier laugh. 

“Was that not obvious?”  
  
“It’s been a very long--I don’t know, life. I just..I just want to make sure we’re not bringing back the wrong person or evil in disguise or something.”   
  
“My name is Anna, my parent’s name were Gerda and Agnarr. My sister is Elsa. She was with your--what is George to you?”   
  
“A nightmare that gets dimmer the longer I’m awake.”   
  
Anna blinks, eyeing Emma like she’s looking for the lie and is only a little pleased to never find it. “Here,” she adds, tugging on a chain around her neck. She brandishes the snowflake that hangs there, an unspoken challenge to Emma that she doesn’t have any interest in. “My sister. She’s got a very similar one, doesn’t she?”   
  
Emma nods. “Yeah, she does.”   
  
“I want to find my sister. That’s how I ended up here.”

“I don’t--”

Anna huffs, tongue darting between her lips as Emma tries to figure out the the door to this cage. “Henry must have told you. I--the Dark One brought me here. Or, at least the man I thought was the Dark One.”

Emma freezes. “You didn’t know?”  
  
“Not until it was too late. The meeting with Blackbeard was a trap. I was no closer to finding Elsa and then I heard rumors that there’d been a curse and Misthaven was gone and I was running out of options. So I decided to try and find the Dark One. I’d found my parent’s old notes and they’d been looking for him before.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“To try and figure out what was wrong with Elsa.”   
  
“There’s nothing wrong with Elsa,” Emma snaps, Tink yelling something about _time_ and a distinct lack of it. 

“I know that. And you know that. But my parents were--they were scared. No one’s ever had magic like that in Arendelle. They went to the Rock Trolls for help, but they couldn’t do anything and then--” She has to catch her breath. “I didn’t know,” Anna whispers. “I was young and our parents left. They got on a ship and they were gone and then they never came back, but I found the notebook and I think--well, I think that’s why Elsa never tried to get back.”  
  
“You think she found out,” Emma breathes. “About your parents and the Dark One. That’s why she went to George? To try and fight him?”

“I do. I--she never trusted her magic, did her best to hide it because my parents thought it was dangerous. I think she was looking for answers.”  
  
“But you still sought him out? Even after all that?”   
  
“You were gone,” Anna shouts. “Kristoff was bound to a pirate ship. I didn’t have a lot of other options. I thought he might know where she was. Only I finally found him and the Dark One wasn’t that, was just a man without any magic and the certainty that I needed to be taken care of and the next thing I knew I was here.”   
  
“I’m sorry.”   
  
Anna scoffs. “You’re sorry? What happened in Misthaven?”   
  
“George was working with the Dark One,” Emma says, a lack of emotion in her voice she’ll probably blame on her heart eventually. “The whole time. He was...we were all being lied to.”   
  
“Shit.” 

“Yeah, that about sums it up. So, uh...well, we’re here to save you. We’ve got some magic and a pirate ship in a bottle and--”

She cuts herself off when Henry yells her name, a shrill cry that makes her spin on the spot and Emma has to admit she’s not entirely prepared for what she sees. Because they’ve clearly run out of time. 

There’s no opening at the end of the cave anymore, half a dozen shadows moving towards them, but her eyes barely linger there before she’s yanking on the front of the cage, a burst of strength that’s nothing more than adrenaline at this point. She tosses the stupid thing over the side of the bridge and her footsteps aren’t quite as light this time, pounding down stone like she’s going downhill. 

Anna collides with Kristoff almost immediately, arms wrapped around her middle and toes dragging across the ground because she wasn’t wearing any shoes. “I’m alright, I’m alright,” she chants, grunting softly when he tightens his hold. “Gods, you’re really here, right?”  
  
“Here, I’m here,” Kristoff says.

It’s nice enough that Emma almost forgets, but then the whole world appears to shake under them and--”Killian,” she yells, falling to her knees, more pain than she’s entirely ready for. It explodes out of the center of her, directly where her heart _should_ be. 

“Emma!” He dodges forward, handing her heart to Henry and trying to move into her space, but that only makes everything hurt more, “No, no, bloody hell. None of it worked.”  
  
“Just get my heart back. It’s--” Whatever else she’s about to say dissolves into a scream, barely able to keep her head upright and she can just make out Killian’s left boot move. That’s as far as he gets. There are flames around him, a circle of fire and flicker of heat, lapping at the side of his legs and the ends of his coat. “Killian!”

“Get your heart,” he bites out. “Now, Swan.”  
  
Emma shakes her head, not sure if it’s a disagreement or general disbelief. She’s breathing heavily, every soft whimper Killian makes leaving her gasping and Ariel has both her eyes closed. There’s smoke in the air now. 

She really has no idea how she stands up. It takes every ounce of _everything_ she’s got in her – which is saying quite a lot since there doesn’t appear to be much of a pulse without her heart, legs that feel like they’re also made of stone, but Emma gets to her feet and she will eventually wish she was more graceful about the whole thing. 

She shoves him. 

Hard. 

It works, though. And Killian brings her with him, falling out of the flames and huffing as soon as Emma’s entire body weight lands on his chest, hair in his face and fingers finding their way under her shirt. 

The door to the cave opens. 

“What the hell is that?” Emma demands. 

“Magic for magic,” Killian whispers, and she can’t hear anything except wonder in his voice. It’s nice, after all this time. “True Love, Swan. Emma, you chose me, that was the test. The island can’t object to that.”  
  
“God, fuck this place.”   
  
He laughs, pulling her closer to him and dragging his mouth against her jaw. It will probably feel better once she’s got a heart again, but it still manages to feel pretty nice and they’re not done yet. “Aye, love, that’s exactly it.”

“So, uh,” Anna starts. “What happens now?”

Emma lifts her head, letting her chin rest on Killian’s shoulder and Henry flashes her a nervous smile. “I don’t know if it’ll work,” he mutters.   
  
“You can do it,” Emma promises. “You’ve just got to believe and you’ve got that in spades.”   
  
“Misplaced reference,” Killian whispers in her ear. He hisses when she shakes on top of him. 

And Henry still looks worried, but then then Anna’s moving, a soft tut as soon as Kristoff tries to follow. She smiles, a bit of her own belief in the movement and Henry gasps as soon as her fingers find his. “When I was little,” she says, “my sister and I used to sneak into the forest. The trees were so tall there, like they were their own castle. And the air was always so crisp. It would hurt at first, cold enough to make goosebumps pop on your skin, but then it was almost nice, a stillness that made us feel like we were the only people in the world.”  
  
Henry’s eyes have fallen closed, lips moving with unspoken words. Anna keeps going. “The snow drifts always seemed enormous. Getting to the top was our favorite game, sliding down and--” She sniffles, lips tugged behind her teeth and it isn’t easy for Emma to get back to her feet again. She reaches her hand towards Anna’s free one, her other fingers curled around Killian’s hook until they’re a string of limbs and stories, memories and moments. “Sometimes Elsa would freeze them, make them into slides so we could get down quicker and oh, I bet you could hear our laughter for miles.”   
  
“Elsa?” Henry asks, one eye cracking open. 

“That’s my sister. I--my name isn’t Joan, Henry. I’m...I’m Anna and I’m from Arendelle.”  
  
The light that flares around them is as blinding as it is warm, a sudden rush that’s the exact opposite of any of the oppressive heat they’ve felt in Neverland. It’s like early-morning sun and the kind of comfort from a good night’s rest and blankets that are soft as silk. It’s home and safety and belief. 

In its purest form. 

The cave walls start to disappear, the light growing and both Anna and Henry are talking now, Emma doing her best to focus her magic. She whispers her own words under her breath, promises and her hopes, and the air around them smells different. 

Like pine trees. 

There are pine trees around them and a silhouette in the distance that’s larger than anything they saw in Neverland. 

“Is that a castle?” Ariel asks, Anna letting out a whoop of triumph. Henry sways on his feet, both Emma and Killian moving in tandem. He falls into Killian’s arms, not objecting to being lifted up, while Emma’s hand presses into his back. 

“You’re alright, my boy, you’re alright,” Killian mutters. “It’s ok. You did it.”  
  
Ariel scoffs. “Where are we?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Anna asks. “Arendelle. We’re home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	22. Chapter 22

“So, uh--” Ariel says, glancing around and it took them what felt like several lifetimes to get out of the forest. It probably had something to do with all the snow drifts. “Does it always look like this here?”

As if on cue, a particularly frigid gust of wind sweeps down the alley they’re lurking in, trying to hide in the bits of shadows. Emma does her best not to shiver, but she’s still not entirely _feeling_ and it’s such a strange thing. 

It’s almost like being hollow, an emptiness that rings out and echoes in her ears and there are icicles hanging from seemingly every available surface around them. 

She has no idea where her heart is. 

That’s probably an issue. 

But the lack of a heart makes it difficult to worry about her heart and Emma barely hears the first crack of the nearest icicle before she’s waving her hand and the stupid thing explodes in the air.

“Not exactly inconspicuous, huh?” she mumbles, curled into Killian’s side. It, somehow, makes her feel emptier, and trying to breathe consistently is a rather sudden and distinct challenge. “Anna, this is bad, right?”  
  
“I mean--” she says, a tremor in her voice that proves how exceptionally bad this is. “It’s probably not the best. But, silver lining, we haven’t run into anyone who wants to stab us yet.”   
  
“If that’s our threshold for silver linings, we’ve got to reexamine them,” Killian grumbles. 

“Ok, wait a second,” Ariel cuts in, arms wrapped around her tight enough that it may actually do damage to her ribs. “Can someone explain what we’re dealing with here? Before we actually all freeze to death.”  
  
“You’re not going to freeze to death.”   
  
“Yeah, so says you.”   
  
“Oh my God,” Emma huffs, and it takes fare more effort than she’d like to admit to flip her hand. The flames that burst out of her palm aren’t all that impressive, not much heat, but there is at least _some_ heat and--”Damn,” she says. “Don’t tell Regina these are so lame. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Killian hums, a quick nod and half a smile that’s really more impressive than her magic because it is absolutely freezing and it’s not easy to move at this point. “Anna,” he says, not taking his eyes away from Emma. “When’s the last time you’ve seen her lose control like this?”  
  
“That’s not what this is,” Anna shouts, loud enough that a few more icicles wobble precariously and Emma reaches her arm out for Henry on something resembling instinct. He shuffles forward, the tips of his ears far too red to be healthy. 

“See, I’m really starting to think we’re going to actually freeze to death” Ariel says. “It’s not exactly the greatest welcome.”  
  
Anna sighs, tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks. They’d probably freeze. It’s so goddamn cold in this alley. “I didn’t know if she’d come back,” she whispers. “She wouldn’t have known about Hans.”   
  
“Do you think that was a Dark One--” Emma grits her teeth when she realizes what she’s sad, eyes flitting towards an almost-amused Killian. 

“I’m not particularly offended, Swan.”  
  
“Generous. I just--I’m spitballing here, I guess.”   
  
“Oh, gross,” Ariel mumbles, her whole body starting to tremble and Emma figures it’s because she’s not one of those mermaids who hang out in the less-than-creatively named North Sea. “Is that some cursed saying?”   
  
Killian glares at her – Emma barely noticing because she’s trying to piece things together again and find some consistency or, at least, a reasonable explanation and--”Fucking hell,” she growls, understanding rattling around inside her. She still can’t quite muster _pure_ anger, but she’s getting close and that’s probably important. “He said it. Killian, he said it, in-- _on_ , goddamn, Track 61.”   
  
“Who? Rumplestiltskin?”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, he said that he was very good at pulling strings. What if this was another string?”   
  
Killian tilts his head, brows pulling low and it only takes a moment for his own realization to wash over her face. “Ah, godamn.”   
  
“What are we talking about?” Ariel demands, but Anna’s gone incredibly pale and Kristoff is clearly breathing through his mouth. 

“Rumplestilskin was lying,” Emma explains. “To all of us, from the very start, twisting and playing with every single one of our lives, and that didn’t change after he lost his magic, after I--” She makes a noise, the emotions rising in the back of her throat like that’s a thing that can actually happen and she tries to focus on the pattern Killian’s fingers are drawing on her palm. “Anyway, he was still an enormous dick. Even after the curse.”  
  
“That’s technical term, huh?” Kristoff muses. He’s moved closer to Anna, seemingly unable to be more than a few feet away and that’s reasonable. All things considered. 

“He told us that he was stockpiling allies. I think Hans was one of them.”  
  
Anna blinks. “What?”   
  
“Honestly, it’s just a theory,” Emma says, Killian whispering encouragements in her ear and making her magic do something it shouldn’t when there’s no heart in her chest. “But, think about it. Elsa leaves Arendelle because she believes her power is too dangerous and goes to George hoping she can, somehow, help defeat the Dark One. Of course, that’s bullshit on several different levels, but it opens up this kingdom. It gives the Dark One even more control, especially after--”   
  
“--You lot cursed yourselves to a different realm,” Kristoff mutters. 

“Yeah. Exactly that. What I’m saying is Rumplestilskin had eyes and ears everywhere and a plan. And your deal with Blackbeard was a trick.”  
  
“Where are you going with this, Savior?” Tink asks. It’s a fair question, because it’s goddamn freezing outside and it might not be that important, but Emma _hates_ Rumplestilskin and she wants every lingering bit of influence he ever had gone. 

“Ok, ok, so the curse is cast, we’re gone, magic in this realm is--”  
  
“--Almost entirely dark,” Killian says. “But Rumplestilskin didn’t have any. That’s--I mean, that was all me, love.”

“I know, I know, but it’s what Blackbeard said, isn’t it? Rumplestilskin believed in the power of a deal, that agreeing to something was binding. He got Elsa out of Arendelle, made sure she believed her magic was something to be feared, and then he needed to get rid of Anna too.”  
  
“You think the Dark One wanted to kill me?” Anna squawks, skin, somehow, going even paler. There’s a comparison about snow to be made. 

Emma bites her tongue. 

“He wasn’t really the Dark One,” Killian says, soft enough that it doesn’t really sound like a threat. And it’s not, not really, but it is something else, a promise or a hint of memories and Anna’s eyes widen to a nearly comical size. 

There’s nothing funny about any of this. 

“I think Rumplestilskin wanted someone in control of this kingdom that _he_ could control,” Emma continues. “And I think Hans was power-hungry. Maybe still is.”   
  
“If he’s not frozen,” Ariel grouses. 

“So,” Emma says pointedly. “Hans makes a claim for the throne, takes over what should be yours and your sister’s and makes sure that when the Dark One comes back to this realm, there’s a kingdom loyal to him. He probably didn’t realize that meant he’d be the one to die eventually, but you know--” 

She shrugs, a weird non-reaction to an idea that’s barely even that, but it all makes sense and the puzzle is some kind of nearly coherent picture now.

“And the Dark One,” Anna whispers, hand reaching back blindly for the tips of Kristoff’s fingers. “He’s not--”  
  
“--No,” Kilian answers sharply. It is honestly almost impressive that Anna gets her eyes to widen even more. “He’s not.”   
  
“Huh.”   
  
“Aye, something like that.”   
  
“And you’re...what, exactly?”   
  
“Hey,” Ariel barks, standing up quickly enough that she nearly slams her shoulder into the side of Henry’s face. 

Killian waves her off, and eventually, Emma is sure, this will stop happening. The shadow in his gaze will disappear and people won’t ask any more questions, will just accept and understand what he’s done and what he’s given up and she gasps when she feels the flutter of _everything_ explode between her ribs.   
  
“Swan,” Killian says quickly, ignoring Anna entirely when he turns on Emma. His hand flies to her shoulders, keeping his hook as far away from her as possible because it’s metal and they’re really dealing with some sub-zero nonsense and it takes her a moment to _get_ it. 

“Oh shit, that was my magic, wasn’t it?”

Killian nods, letting his head drop close enough that it rests on hers. His breath is warm on her cheek. “Very cyclical, don’t you think?”  
  
“Probably something about True Love.”   
  
“Mmhm, I’m sure.”   
  
“I hope he’s as cold in New York as we are here.”

It’s far from the most scathing insult she’s ever uttered, but it does manage to work a quiet laugh out of Killian and Emma does her best to memorize the feel of his lips when they brush between her brows. “Wasn’t winter there yet.”  
  
“Ah, that’s stupid,” Emma grumbles, a soft hum of agreement from Killian. “I’ve got some theories about this magic thing, but uh--do you know where my heart is?”   
  
“In my pocket.”

She has no idea what sound she makes. It doesn’t sound entirely like her, but Emma also doesn’t feel entirely like her and--

“Intruders!”

“What the hell,” she groans, head slamming into Killian’s shoulder. It should probably hurt more than it does. 

“It was really only a matter of time,” Tinker Bell points out. “And for what it’s worth, they also look a little cold.”  
  
Emma pulls her head up at that, taking in the latest round of people attacking them and she’s loathe to admit that Tinker Bell is right. The men are barely running, muscles that look like they’re protesting at every movement, far too many layers on each one of them. 

“Is that one wearing an actual blanket around his shoulders?” Ariel asks. She’s trying to move Henry behind her, but that appears to be a fool’s errand and maybe being a hero requires reaching a certain threshold of stubbornness. 

“Oh, this is bad,” Anna whispers, Emma resisting the urge to throw back some incredibly sarcastic barbs. She focuses that energy on her magic instead, a bolt that resonates down her spine and out of her, the light in the alley bright enough that it looks like midday. 

And it takes her a second – more shouts and she’s really getting tired of the word _witch_ being thrown her way, but then her head snaps towards Killian. He’s staring at Henry. 

The kid isn’t doing much more than standing there, but his hands are clenched at his side, a focus on his face that’s undeniable, drops of sweat forming on his brow. 

He doesn’t move. There are no steps. Or dramatic arm waves. There’s just a quiet certainty around him, the promise of hope that makes the air taste sweet on Emma’s tongue and she still isn’t _right_ , can’t bring herself to focus on more than a single thing at a time, but her magic soars and it isn’t just hers. 

Henry smiles at her. 

“You just have to trust yourself,” he says, and that’s enough. 

Emma nods, letting her eyes flutter shut as the warmth moves through her arms, shooting out the ends of her fingers and hanging in between every strand of her hair. She can’t hear what the men are yelling anymore, their voices sounding like they’re coming from another cave. 

It doesn’t take very long. 

Her magic twists in the air around her, a steady rhythm that matches up with Henry’s breathing and Emma can feel the way it surges forward. The men don’t gasp. That feels like a victory. They do, however, stop moving, expressions unreadable when Emma’s eyes fly back open and the icicles above them are still there. They don’t look quite as menacing though, more like decoration and it’s actually almost kind of pretty,

“No one is trying to hurt you,” Emma promises. “We just--where is Hans?”  
  
“And my sister,” Anna adds, leaping forward despite Kristoff’s arms wrapped around her middle. She flails her arms, a snarl on her lips that’s probably supposed to look intimidating, but there’s still magic lingering in the air and Emma really doesn’t want to be intimidating.

One of the men drop their sword. 

The other two fall to their knees. 

And Ariel’s snicker is a little out of place, but Henry’s jaw drops and Anna mumbles something that sounds a lot like _imbeciles_ under her breath. 

“Your highness,” a man breathes, head ducked and eyes cast on his shoes. “How are you--we thought the king had you killed.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
“King Hans, ma’am. He--he said that you’d been executed. A threat to the crown.”   
  
Anna’s entire face turns hard – as if she’s been magically transformed into rocks and Emma briefly wonders where the hell the rock trolls are, but that’s another puzzle and the current state of Arendelle makes a hell of a lot more sense now. 

“As you can see,” Anna says slowly, a steady step forward that belies how clearly her shoulders are shaking. It’s probably because she’s stopped breathing like a normal human being. “I’m clearly not dead.”  
  
The man nods enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, your highness, I can see that, but King Hans--”   
  
“--I’d suggest you don’t use that title again,” Kristoff murmurs. His fingers dance on the top of his sword hilt and the man looks like he’s trying to actually dig himself into the ground. 

With his left knee. 

“It’s a very good suggestion,” Anna agrees. She’s close enough that her toes nearly land on top of the man’s outstretched hand and they really need to get her shoes. Emma isn’t sure she can magic shoes. At least not in her heartless condition. 

She’s starting to get very tired again. 

“So,” Anna continues softly, “I’ll ask one more time. Where is my sister?”  
  
The man lifts his head, a shiver that’s different than anything any of them have experienced in the last few minutes. It’s not cold. It’s fear. And not of Anna. 

Emma bites back another curse. 

“She’s with the usurper, your highness,” a different--knight, defender, _whatever_ , answers, Anna’s soft hum of approval sounding impossibly loud. “She--well, she arrived shortly after word came that the Misthaven royal family had returned.”   
His eyes flit towards Emma, a gasp that’s kind of insulting really. “Ma’am,” he adds, a curt nod and clench of his jaw that probably has more to do with Killian’s sword than anything. 

“And what happened when the Queen got here?” Killian asks. 

“She was looking for the princess. Made that very clear.”  
  
“And cold,” the third man chips in, hissing when Kristoff points his sword at him. “Well, it’s--she said she didn’t care about the throne or the crown or any of it, just wanted to find Princess Anna and then--um...”   
  
“Spit it out,” Kristoff seethes. 

“The king came down into the village and, as you can see, the discussion didn’t end very well. No one’s seen hide nor hair of them since.”  
  
“And that was?”   
  
“Nearly a week ago.”

“Oh Gods,” Anna sighs, stumbling back into Kristoff’s chest. “Alright, I’m still your princess, right? I get royal understanding or--”

“--Decrees,” Ariel mumbles. “The word you’re looking for is decrees.”  
  
“Whatever. I want you to listen to me. And I want you to tell every single person this. Do you understand me?” Silence. Anna growls. And all three men nod in tandem. “That’s what I thought,” she smiles, “alright, listen to me, my sister is the rightful ruler of this kingdom. Her magic is not something to be afraid of and you’re making it harder for her. She is--she is not a threat, magic is not wrong. It just is. And--” She looks at Emma. “That’s right, right?”   
  
Emma nods. “As far as I know.”   
  
“Good. So you’re going to get up now and start telling people that Elsa is back. I am back. Hans is...I don’t care what you tell people about Hans, but maybe we send a message to the Seven Isles and let them know that we’re going to be returning their piece of garbage prince. Got it?”

The men scramble to their feet, jerky nods and stuttered agreements, but it only takes a moment for them to start running several different directions with cries on their lips and the whole town begins to awaken around them. 

Anna sighs, running a hand over her face. “Damn. That’s...I know why she ran and I understand, I do, but I--I didn’t expect this.”  
  
“Aye, that seems to be a theme at this point,” Killian says. Emma probably can’t actually hear him swallow, but the ice under his feet crunches when he rocks closer to her. “So not exactly a lot of royal enthusiasm in this kingdom is there?”

“And you’ve got a lot of experience with effective royalty?” Kristoff drawls, a grin that very nearly reaches his eyes. “If the rumors were true, Misthaven wasn’t exactly known for its efficiency, particularly near the end.”

“That was the Dark One,” Emma reasons. “Just, you know, if you want to get technical.”

“Yeah, let’s get technical,” Anna mumbles, Ariel groaning when they’ve all started wading through sarcasm that could probably melt some of the snow on the ground. 

“So, what do you think is more likely?” Ariel asks. “The stabbing or the freezing? How cold do we have to get before we’re just...stuck to the ground?”  
  
“Fisk, you’ve got to stop mentioning the temperature, it’s not helping,” Killian hisses. The words lack a bit of anger though and Emma twists when she notices the shift in his tone. He’s staring at the ground. 

“You’ve got that face, babe,” Emma mutters, and she can just make out the ends of his mouth tugging up.

He nods at the ground. “Look at that.”  
  
“At what? The sludge? It’s not--Anna, honestly, I’m really worried about your feet.”

Anna startles at that, Kristoff muttering his approval of Emma’s concern, and, strictly speaking, _that_ shouldn’t be what does it, not after the Echo Cave and getting back to Arendelle, but maybe that’s kind of the point and it’s all about something bigger than magic. 

Decency. Humanity. Believing in each other. 

Seriously, Mary Margaret is going to be so upset she missed this. 

“Oh, no, no, I’m--well, I’m absolutely freezing,” Anna admits, a shaky laugh and slightly manic smile. “But, um--”  
  
“--Here,” Killian says, shrugging out of his jacket. He holds his hand out, the ends of the leather brushing over that aforementioned sludge and his lips tug up again. Soft. Earnest. Like he’s a million years younger. 

“Gentleman,” Emma mutters. Eventually she’ll probably be able to deal with the color of his eyes. She hopes not. 

She hopes it only gets more and more difficult to deal with. 

“Just, uh,” Killian adds, Anna’s fingers curling around the collar of the jacket and it’s absurdly large on her, “make sure--”  
  
“--I don’t drop your princess’ heart.”   
  
“Aye, that would be ideal.”   
  
Anna hums, pulling the lapels closer to her and burrowing into the leather. It’s not quite an alliance, but it may almost be understanding and that’s enough. “What were you looking at?”

“That,” he answers, nodding towards the swirls of ice at their feet. “How familiar are you with currents, your highness?”  
  
“Should I be?”   
  
“Eh, probably not, but luckily I'm here.”   
  
“Oh he’s getting haughty,” Ariel whines. “I hate when he gets overconfident like that. It never ends well.”   
  
Killian grins at her, Emma shaking her head because that’s not right. It’s not confidence. It’s knowledge and a lifetime of looking for the Dark One, of clues and searching, a quest that, eventually, people are going to remember as nothing short of heroic. 

And she moves on something bordering close to a compulsion, her magic shaking the walls of the buildings around them. The ice cracks under her right boot, Killian’s breath falling out of him as soon as Emma’s lips land on his. 

He turns his face into her hand when they pull away, moving against the skin of her wrist in a way that almost distracts her from the fingers drifting towards the ring hanging over her shirt.

“Librarian,” Emma mumbles. He smiles. 

“Any sailor worth his salt can spot a storm a mile away, Swan. And all storms have an eye, right? An epicenter of it all, where things are almost calm.”  
  
“Maybe you are showing off, actually.”   
  
Killian chuckles, a quick nip of his teeth that makes Emma gasp and crash back onto her heels. “I’m not. Look at the ice, love. It didn’t start here. It moved. Magic like that it...it leaves a mark. And that mark came from up there.”   
  
He nods towards the castle, lights in the windows and banners fluttering that aren’t the right colors in the seemingly never-ending breeze. “Eye of the storm, huh?” Emma asks, and Killian’s fingers don’t pull away from her. 

“This magic didn’t start here. It grew. And it wasn’t exactly a controlled growth.”  
  
“If what you’re saying is true, then we may be in for another fight,” Tink says.

Anna makes a contrary noise in the back of her throat. “No, no, she’s just--she’s looking for me. She thinks I’m dead. I--” Her exhale makes her whole body curl in on itself, all the more absurd with Killian’s jacket hanging from her shoulders. “This is my fault. I should have dragged her out of Misthaven myself.”  
  
“Then you would be dead,” Emma mutters, hating how goddamn depressing those particular words sound in that particular order. They’ve really got to work on getting some more color into Anna’s cheeks. “I told you in the Echo Cave. We were all lied to. None of it was right, but that’s different now. And--Henry, cover your ears.”

Henry rolls his eyes, but Emma widens hers and it only takes a few more moments before he moves his arms. 

“Hans can go fuck himself,” Emma finishes. “So, let’s run with the eye of the storm theory for a second and, uh--” She holds her hands out, not sure if she can actually do this, but they’ve already wasted enough time and several decades and Emma figures the sooner they save Arendelle the sooner she’ll be able to sit down. 

For at least fifteen minutes. 

She’ll count it. 

“Swan,” Killian objects, a tone she fully expected. “C’mon, you don’t have to--”  
  
“--That sounds like a distinct lack of belief, Lieutenant.”   
  
“Emma.”   
  
“Ah, and _that_ is playing dirty.”   
  
“That’s been my schtick for quite some time, love.”

Emma snaps her head up, the feel of his fingers wrapping around her hand welcome and familiar and he’s still, somehow, almost warm. She focuses on that. “No, it’s not,” she whispers, hoping if she says it enough it will erase some of those memories and all of their mistakes and--she glances around at the confused faces staring at her. “Everyone hold onto each other, this going to--”

She blinks before she finishes the sentence. 

“Holy--” Anna gasps, sliding forward because the floor they’ve landed on is covered in ice. She snaps her head around, glaring daggers at Emma. “A little warning would have been nice!”

Emma shrugs. “Would you have agreed to it?”  
  
“No!”   
  
“Well, there you go. Any idea where we are? I just kind of focused on Elsa and concentrated power and--”   
  
She bites on her tongue and, until that moment, Emma wasn’t aware that ice could crackle that way, almost as if it were actually fire. It’s awful. And cold. And moving around the doors at either end of the hall, sealing them in and Emma moves again. More instinct. And even more magic. 

The door doesn’t quite fly off its hinges, but it’s very close. The wood slams into the wall, an oddly satisfying crunch and Emma’s feet are moving. She assumes they are, but she appears to have lost control of most of her limbs and she did, in fact, bring them exactly where they were supposed to be. 

The throne room. 

“Oh no,” Anna breathes, and that just about sums it up. 

Because this throne room isn’t like any Emma has seen before – more ice and frosted windows, piles of snow that look almost soft, as if they’re simply waiting for someone to jump into them. It’s nearly peaceful, that same stillness Anna had talked about, but then Emma hears the unmistakable rattle of chains and she hates being this wrong this consistently.

The chains are made of ice. 

“No, no, no,” the man in front of them babbles, a quick shake of his head and desperate eyes that don’t seem to focus on anything. “No, no, you were gone! I heard you were gone! No one leaves that island!”  
  
“Ah, this must Hans,” Emma mutters. “Does kind of feed into my working for Rumplestilskin theory, huh?” Anna nods, another step forward with the ends of Killian's jacket dragging behind her. 

Hans, as it seems is tradition when dealing with a new villain, looks like complete and utter shit.

He was probably very handsome at one point, but all of those features look haggard now, cheeks that cling to the bones of his face and hair that falls across his forehead as if it too has, simply, given up. His eyes are hollow, a coldness there that also feels a little on the nose, but Emma’s heart is in her pirate boyfriend’s pocket and he’s not even wearing that jacket anymore, so really...she doesn’t have a leg to stand on. 

He pulls at the chains again, a twist and turn that Emma is sure he’s tried several thousand times. Kristoff pulls his sword out. “You know,” he says slowly, flipping his wrist so the blade points directly at Hans’ throat, “it’s almost disappointing to see you like this. Won't be close to an even fight.”  
  
Kristoff glances over his shoulder, meeting Killian’s gaze. “What do you think? Stab him now or let him out of the chains first?”   
  
“I don’t think he’s your prisoner,” Killian says evenly, but Emma can hear the undercurrent of something there, tugging on the back of her thoughts and the bit of emotion she’s, somehow, managed to retain. It would, likely, make her heart flutter. 

“That’s probably true. It’s not as much fun if you’re not going to live up to the ruthless pirate reputation, you know.”  
  
“I wasn’t always a ruthless pirate.”   
  
Emma opens her mouth – defenses rising in time with the anger that doesn’t make sense, but there are more footsteps and a rush of cold that circles the entire room. “Lieutenant Jones?” Elsa breathes, disbelief dripping from every letter. 

Killian spins on the spot, bringing Emma with him and there’s far too much ice. It’s difficult to keep her balance. It’s probably not the ice, really. Elsa shakes her head dubiously, far too focused on familiar faces to notice the face she’s actually looking for and--

“What are you doing here? How did you get in here?”  
  
“I’m really good at magic now that it’s not, you know, dying,” Emma mutters, more sarcasm and Elsa makes another face. 

“Makes sense. But that doesn’t explain what you’re--”  
  
“--Elsa,” Anna whispers. 

Saying that everything freezes seems kind of absurd, but Emma doesn’t know who to look at and Killian’s arm wraps around her waist, a quick tug that pulls her flush against his chest. And frozen, really, is the best word for it. 

Elsa’s whole body tenses, a sigh falling out of her that is rife with emotion and magic and years spent believing something that wasn’t true. She blinks. And blinks. And blinks again. Until there are tears falling down her face and icicles ratting from the ceiling, Hans doing his best to ruin the whole moment by trying to escape. 

Emma waves her hand. He doesn’t move again. 

“No, no,” Elsa objects, pulling her lips behind her teeth. “This can’t be right. This is--is this more magic? Emma, I thought the Darkness was gone.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Kristoff shouts, and Emma doesn’t know if she groans or Killian does. It doesn’t really matter.   
  
“I promise, that’s not important,” he mutters. “Elsa, this is real. All of it. You don’t--”   
  
“God, shut up,” Anna interrupts sharply. Her feet move with a surprising amount of ease across the ice, almost like she’s skating and whatever noise Elsa makes as soon as her sister slams into her chest is one Emma is far too familiar with. 

Like getting something back she never expected to find again. 

They cling to each other, tears and questions and the magic doesn’t stop. It rattles around them, leaves cracks in those windows and snowflakes flying through the air and Hans yells something. The last thing Emma expects is for it to be a warning. 

And yet. 

The ice falls quickly, shards and danger and so much _goddamn magic_ and she doesn’t think, barely has time to react before jumping and pushing and Killian’s shrill _Emma_ rattles in the emptiness she’s filled with as soon as everything crashes around them. A wall. Of ice. Between the lot of them. 

“Swan,” Killian cries, and Emma’s head is on a swivel. None of them have been hit by the ice, but the ice looks especially thick and decidedly magical and there are tears streaming down Elsa’s face. She’s still hanging onto Anna like she’s terrified she’ll disappear, Henry half a step away and clearly unsure of what he’s supposed to do. 

Emma understands the sentiment. 

“You have to answer, Swan,” Killian continues, voice taking on a desperate edge. She can hear a soft thud on the other side of the wall, a scratch that takes her a moment to place. His hook. He’s trying to claw through the ice. 

She wishes her heart were back in her chest. 

“I’m ok,” Emma shouts, staring back at Anna when she gapes in disbelief. “Right? We’re all ok. Everything is going to be ok.” The scratching doesn’t stop. “Babe,” she continues, jogging back towards the wall and it’s difficult to push her magic through. As if the wall is fighting back. That’s starting to get really old. “Killian, it’s alright. I’m—I promise, this is fine. It’s, well, you know, maybe we shouldn’t have just appeared here.”

Anna scoffs. “You think?”

“Thank you, that’s a ton of help.” Anna scowls, but there’s not much fight left in the set of her shoulders, holding onto Elsa as tightly as ever. Emma presses her palm against the wall, ignoring the burst of cold that turns into almost immediate pain and there’s obviously a lot she doesn’t understand about ice. “Killian,” Emma repeats. “We’re going to be ok.”

The scratching stops. 

“Say again,” he rasps, a soft thud that she hopes isn’t his actual head falling on the ice. 

“That’s how it’s got to work, right? Savior and all that. Saving everyone should include us too.”

Emma can barely hear his laugh, but the sound of it settles in the center of her, a low thrum that feels a bit like the rhythm her pulse would normally make. She is more dramatic than normal without her heart. “Every single time,” Killian says, and maybe the box is in his jacket too. 

Right next to Emma’s heart. That is, oddly, appropriate. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Elsa mumbles. “This isn’t—is this real? This is really happening?”

“The wall or…totally destroying Hans with your magic? Because that was honestly impressive. You think he’s got frostbite?”

“Emma!”

She shrugs, not entirely regretting the words. “I mean we did decide he’s kind of an ass and, you know, freaking about the magic is understandable. You just…well, if you can get us back out of here we can probably enact some kind of justice and go from there.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“Wait, what?”

“I wasn’t trying to do this,” Elsa exclaims, waving a hand towards the wall and there are actual spikes of ice growing out of the ground now. “I just—we got back to Misthaven and I was…for the first time in my life I thought I could do something good. That I deserved to come home.”

She shakes her head, more tears for a different reason. “I got back and Hans was here, spouting lies and telling me Anna was dead and…well I didn’t react well. I was everything my parents thought I’d be, exactly the reason they’d gone to the Dark One to begin with and—"

“—I’m really here,” Anna says, but her voice is shaking and that’s probably not great either. They definitely should have planned this better. “Both of us. Again. And it’s not going to change. You can…you don’t have to keep running, Elsa.”

Elsa lets out a huff, an objection without actually using the words as she takes a step back from Anna. Her eyes dart everywhere and nowhere, a frantic energy that makes the wall audibly groan. Like it’s getting thicker. 

And keeping people out. 

Far too on the nose. 

Emma sighs, not quite a laugh because nothing about this is funny, but Henry’s smiling like he’s figured it out as well. Gods, she hopes so. “Yeah,” he nods, all enthusiasm and determination. “That’s it!”

“What—” Anna starts, but her _ohhh_ comes quickly, smile stretching across her face and maybe they’re actually alright at winging it. Emma hopes so, at least. It’s starting to get very cold behind that wall. She nods once, shoulders shifting again and it’s not anything except complete and absolute belief. 

Anna walks towards Elsa, the smile lingering at the corners of her mouth and drowning out any objections her sister could come up with. There are plenty, but Anna doesn’t stop and Emma reaches back for Henry’s hand. 

His fingers lace through hers immediately. 

“You’re not a monster, Elsa,” Anna says. “You never were. You were…strong and scared and they were wrong. All of them. And I’ll—I’ll issue a million royal decrees and climb on every rooftop if I have to. I’ll shout and scream and stomp my feet because this is—” She gestures to the ice, light reflecting off the edges, making it all look like crystal and diamonds. “Incredible.”

“I could have killed all of you,” Elsa argues, voice cracking on the final few letters. “I never had control, Anna! Not really! Even George knew. I was something to be feared.”

“That’s not true!”

“No? Watch.” She thrusts her hand forward, grimacing with effort and…nothing happens. “I wasn’t trying to do this,” Elsa presses. “I was reacting. All emotion. No control. And now I have no idea how to get us out and—Gods, Emma is turning blue!”

Emma shakes her head, but she can’t feel much of anything anymore, literally and emotionally and several other adverbs. “I’m ok.”

“I am a time bomb,” Elsa hisses. “This just shows it. I couldn’t get what I wanted and I just…reacted. Chained Hans and did this and—” Her breath hitches loudly, chest heaving with the force of her sobs and Emma wants to move. But she feels like she’s stuck, every one of her muscles protesting to the cold that’s settling into them and Anna moves first anyway. 

She lunges forward, a glint in her gaze that makes Emma certain she could probably do just about anything with a few more royal decrees under her belt. Her hands fly up, fingers curling around Elsa’s shoulders and forcing her to look at her. 

“They were wrong,” she says, slow and steady and each word sounds more focused than the last. “Mama and Papa. Every single person in this blasted kingdom. Me, Hans, the goddamn Dark One. All of them. But that is over now. This is…I believe in you, Elsa. I believe you’re good and you deserve to be happy. We both do. We deserve to start over. As sisters.”

Anna nods once, a sharp inhale and everything is still for a moment. Like dawn cresting over a snow-covered ridge. Or something far less dramatic than that. 

“I love you. That’s never changed. No matter what you think you’ve done.”

Elsa exhales again, sounding as if she’s letting go of the world’s heaviest weight. “Anna, you don’t know, Gods, it’s—he’s definitely got frostbite.”

“Ah, well, he definitely deserved it. He’s the reason I ended up in Neverland.”

“Neverland?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, it’s a very good, incredibly dramatic story, but I’m sure Kristoff wants to hear it too and—”

“Wait, wait, who is Kristoff?” Elsa asks, a questionable flush rising in Anna’s cheeks that’s almost normal. If they weren’t all well on their way to freezing. 

“He’s, uh...someone,” Anna answers evasively, scrunching her nose when Elsa leans back at the obvious lie. “Someone important. He…helped. Me, I mean. When you were gone.”

“You can say ran. That’s what it was.”

Anna shakes her head, a bit of light reflecting off the small stone on her left hand. Elsa’s eyes bug. “I won’t say that,” Anna promises. “And well…I think you’ll like him. I hope so, at least.”

“I know I will.” Elsa says, sniffling softly. “I love you too.” 

“She already told people anyway,” Henry adds, fingers tightening around Emma’s. 

Elsa blinks, tear-stained cheeks and a lower lip that’s a little redder than usual after so much time biting on it. “What?” 

“She told people. Those men. All the bad things Hans did and how you’re the Queen and you’re really a queen? That’s pretty awesome.”

“Wait, wait, who is this?” 

“Oh,” Henry says brightly, and the whole thing is only slightly absurd. Emma does her best not to laugh. And shiver. Mostly shiver. She doesn’t think Elsa would be able to cope with that. “I’m Henry. I’ve got magic too.”

“Yuh huh.”

“It’s a very long story,” Emma explains. “That also involves Neverland and pirates and the Dark One continuing to be the worst part, but we’re fairly certain we’ve almost taken care of everything and Anna was incredibly royal about the whole thing.”

“Ah, that was nice,” Anna says, and her smile has returned to confident after, almost, discussing an impending wedding and time spent as a prisoner in some kind of hell island that Emma would like to never think about again. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Henry continues, voice picking up and Emma’s started to notice that too. He gets very excited when he believes in things. That’s unexpectedly wonderful. “She told them to tell people the truth and what a bad guy Hans is and I don’t know who they were, but that one had a lot of medals. He was probably important.”

“More medals, more valor,” Emma mutters, another round of symmetry and magic jumps at the thought. “That’s how the saying goes, right?”

“I don’t know about that,” Elsa objects softly. She doesn’t look like she’s crying anymore. And Emma doesn’t want to mention that the wall is starting to look a little thinner. 

She’s slightly concerned about jinxing things. 

So she focuses on her own magic instead, lets her thumb swipe across Henry’s palm and he isn’t finished talking yet. “You don’t have to believe everything yet, Ms. Elsa,” he says. “But you can know that other people do. Ms. Joan did. The entire time we were in Neverland. She never stopped. And so will everyone else. They’ll think you’re good and they’ll remember everything and—”

“—Remember? Remember what?”

“Snow slides,” Anna whispers. “And pine trees. Winters when we were little and—”

“—Snowmen.”

Anna nods. “Snowmen. Henry is, um…well, I don’t entirely understand it, but Henry believes in things and I’ve always believed in you. Even when you didn’t realize it. And I’m not saying we have to build a snowman again because that’s…you know, not really all that royal, but I’d like to kick Hans out of this castle and take back our kingdom and—” She takes another deep breath, gaze going soft but sure. “I trust you, Elsa. With my whole heart.”

The wall moves again, a shake that isn’t all that menacing when the necklaces around both Elsa and Anna’s neck start to glow. It’s dim a first, a blue hue that casts shadows on the floor and Emma has had enough shadows to last several lifetimes, but then it grows, turning almost bright and nearly warm, wrapping around them like several different kinds of blankets and down comforters. It stretches up the wall, getting stronger as it moves, a color like the sky at night and everything about it is as calm as Emma can remember anything ever being. 

“Eye of the storm,” she whispers, Henry’s laugh ringing out. 

Emma’s magic flies, a noise like triumph echoing in her ears, because she can see the belief on every inch of Elsa’s face. She latches onto that, pushes her power and whatever the actual, magical definition of _Savior_ is, ignoring the ache in the small of her back, the way her whole body protests to it.

The future of magic. And prophecy. Always. 

Elsa closes her eyes, tongue darting between her lips and Emma can’t feel that magic, but Anna might be able to. She gasps, at least, a quick stutter that turns into quiet encouragement, muttered words and _c’mon_ and _yeah, you can do it_ and the light flies forward. It pulses out of Elsa’s palm and directly out of the center of her necklace, slamming into the wall until there’s a tiny hole there, frantic voices on the other side. 

“Emma,” Killian yells at the same time Kristoff shouts “Anna!” 

Elsa doesn’t open her eyes, but her lips twitch up and the hole keeps getting bigger. Emma’s knees wobble, a mix of exhaustion and cold and she fully expects it to hurt when her legs collapse under her.

That, however, would require her to actually collapse. 

She doesn’t. There are arms around her, words in her ears and—

“Gods, your nose is freezing,” Emma grumbles, whatever noise Killian makes at that equally absurd and far too attractive to be fair. 

He doesn’t say anything else, at least not at first, holding her tightly and maybe a little possessively, which shouldn’t be as nice as it is, but Emma’s greedy and starting to get a little delirious – too much magic and not enough heart and she genuinely cannot feel any of her extremities. 

So she lets Killian hold her, burrows her face into his chest and tries to breathe him in. It’s not entirely pleasant, but it’s been a rather ridiculous string of days and she’s more focused on the steady beat of his pulse under her right ear. 

“Are you ok?” Emma whispers, almost expecting that noise. It takes her a moment to realize her feet aren’t on the ground. “The feats of strength are ridiculous.”

“Stop squirming so much.”

Emma scoffs, doing the exact opposite because anything except being as close to him as possible feels like the dumbest thing in the world. And she knows he can feel the magic still moving through her. 

“You must be Kristoff,” Elsa says, and Emma can just barely see her hold her hand out. She’s starting to laugh more. 

Gods, but she’s tired. 

Kristoff takes Elsa’s hand, his other one reaching for Anna. She beams. 

“Ah, see, it is romantic,” Ariel says, standing a few inches away from Hans with a trident sticking out of his shoulder blade. “So, uh…what do we want to do with this one, then?”

“Fisk, did you stab him?” Killian asks. 

“I was being proactive, Hook. That’s my job. To make sure that the threats aren’t threatening. Also,” she adds, flashing a smile at Elsa. “Hi, I’m Ariel. It’s nice to meet you, Your Majesty.”

Elsa only looks a little overwhelmed. “Likewise. And, well, you do bring up an interesting point about Hans. What did you stab him with incidentally?”

“Squid ink.”

“Oh, that’s actually really helpful.”

Ariel stares at Killian, eyebrows flying into her hairline. Emma is never going to stop laughing. She can’t get warm. “I never said you weren’t helpful, Fisk,” Killian reasons. “Maybe a little blunt, but never unhelpful.”

“Generous.”

“Aye, that’s me.” She sticks her tongue out. “It does leave you with a few options though, Elsa,” he adds, shifting Emma’s weight when she, presumably, starts to hurt his forearms. “You can send him back home. You can keep him on ice. You can—”

“—Home,” Elsa answers quickly. “I don’t want him here. But that’s…we’ll deal with that tomorrow. We need some rest and this is,” she sighs, “damn, it’s just a shit ton of garbage, isn’t it?”

“Your cursed self is showing,” Emma mutters, her whole body shaking when she speaks. Killian’s arms tighten again. 

“I know, it’s weird, isn’t it? But it might be nice to be home.”

“It will be. I believe that.”

Emma’s eyes flit towards Henry, his smile turning a little tired when his head starts to loll against Ariel’s side, and Elsa nods in agreement. “It will,” she says. “You all deserve some rest though. At least for tonight. There’s rooms and beds and I can—” Elsa waves her hand and the ice disappears immediately, clear windows and soft shouts and it takes a moment for the words to become clear. 

Anna gasps. 

Because the words are, suddenly, obvious. And loud. As if they’re being shouted from several rooftops. 

“Long live Queen Elsa!”

Emma moves again, her knees threatening to push into her chest, but there’s nothing else there, so maybe that will help and the lips that graze her temple aren’t enough and--“Here,” Anna whispers, shrugging out of Killian’s jacket and it isn’t easy for him to take it. He has to put Emma down, an objection on her lips until he wraps the leather around her and everything is warm and simple and the press of the goddamn bottle in one of the pockets is oddly comforting. 

“Tomorrow,” Elsa promises, and it doesn’t sound nearly as foreboding anymore. 

They find a room for Henry, his whole body flushed with surprise at the look of it, far more blankets and pillows than he’s ever seen before – as he’s so quick to tell both Emma and Killian – jumping onto a mattress that only protests his weight slightly. He pulls the fabric up under his chin, a bit of light lingering in his gaze even when his eyelids start to flutter shut and Emma isn’t entirely ready for the next few words out of his mouth. 

“Do you—” he whispers, staring at the bit of carpeting between the edge of the bed and Killian’s foot. He was stunned by the carpet as well. “Could you just—”

“—We’ll be right outside,” Emma says before he can finish the question. “Just try and get some sleep, ok? No one’s going anywhere.”

Henry nods, cheek brushing against far too many pillows because he didn’t want to take any off the bed and Emma can’t really walk in this jacket, but she and Killian manage to close the door behind them before one of them pulls the other to the floor and the nearest wall.

She sighs. 

Her arm is pressed against Killian’s though, a heat she can’t understand falling off him in waves, like it’s trying to remind her of things and could-be and she has to lick her lips to stop herself from falling off the edge of something horrible. 

“Swan, I—”

“—Killian”

She lets out a soft laugh, not much more than a breath and a blink. Her head falls to the side, fingers wrapping around his and she’s certain she’ll never come to terms with that. The way he looks at her. Like she’s the center of the universe. Several times over. Some kind of north star and guiding light and several meteorological jokes that have no place in a realm without electricity. 

So, really, she can’t be expected to do anything except reach into the pocket of a jacket that must weigh at least fifty pounds, pull out her own goddamn and hand it to the man who was never really a ruthless pirate. 

He was just always hers. 

As is. 

“Yours,” Emma whispers, a smile that she hopes isn’t as nervous as it feels. Her cheeks shake, but that might also be the tears clouding her vision and that is stupid. It makes it more difficult to see Killian. 

He licks his lips, the back of his hook reaching up to drag behind his ear. “Aye, and mine too.”

“So, uh—” She shakes her head, a look that definitely worked in a different hallway as well and maybe nothing is ever really new. It’s an oddly comforting thought. Maybe they’re just…meant. Some kind of wonderful, indefinite, inevitable, true love thing, a circle that might land them at different points, but always able to find the other. “What are you going to do about it, Lieutenant?”

“Oh, that sounds like a challenge.”

“It might be.”

Killian chuckles, hand shaking and he takes a deep breath before he lifts Emma’s heart out of her hand. The red glows brighter, a surge of light that’s, undoubtedly reacting to him and her magic and the whole thing is blatantly obvious, but Emma doesn’t care, just wants and he tried to scratch his way through a wall of ice for her. 

“Penny for your thoughts.”

“Swan, I’m trying to figure out how to put your heart back into your body. I think we can talk particulars after that, don’t you?”

“Well, not after you’ve taken all the romance out of it.”

He clicks his tongue, but she can see a bit of amusement and it’s nice to know they can flirt even without all the usual organs. “I thought you were going to die,” he whispers, as if he doesn’t want the words to fall out of him, but can’t bring himself to stop. Emma blinks. “More times than I’d like to acknowledge in the last few hours, but—” Killian grits his teeth. “—Every time it was like something snapped, every thought I had screaming to figure out how to fix it, to save you and make sure it didn’t happen. And I don’t know how.”

Emma isn’t actually crying. Which would be a nice change of pace if she weren’t sure it was because of the heart thing, but it might also have something to do with the tremor in his voice, the catch in his breathing and the way she can see every single one of his muscles in his throat move when he swallows.

“I love you,” she whispers, dragging her other hand to his chest. Directly over his heart. “More than anything. From the very start. And I--I know that we’ve fucked it up. Several thousand times. There’s magic and no magic and magic I’ll probably regret until the day I do actually die.”

“Hey, c’mon.”

“Let’s not get into who died first, huh?”

Killian grins, nosing at her cheek and that kiss almost burns its way into her. “Aye, that’s fair.”

“My point is I know it’s not going to get easier now. And there’s still a ship in a bottle and politics I'm not entirely interested in, but…it’s always been you, Killian. In every realm. Every curse. Every single hallway we could sit in. No matter what. So maybe we could just…I don’t know, you’re better at sweeping romanticism than I am.”

“That so?”

“Oh, stop it.”

“You brought it up, Swan,” he grins, the tip of his hook carding through her hair and the metal makes her jump when it brushes over her skin. “But I think you’re right too. We make a very good team.”

“We’ve almost circled back around to romance.”

“Almost.”

“Go team, or whatever.”

“That’s exactly the sentiment we should be aiming for.”

“How do you walk in this coat?”

“I’m very impressive and incredibly strong.” Emma scoffs, but that’s, at least, partially true and she’s aware of her fingers again, so the jacket is serving its purpose. Killian doesn’t lift his head up before he adds, “Are you alright, though? Honestly.”

“Probably better once you put my heart back.”

“Swan—”

“—I’m not a magic expert, but there’s probably rules about this.”

“You are grasping at straws.”

“No,” Emma argues, wrapping both her hands around his wrist and that look. She’ll think about that look for days. Years. The rest of her goddamn life. Because that look is hers and theirs and those same possessive pronouns she’d been so interested in. “I’m sure. Just, you know, be careful and—”

She gasps when his arm pushes forward, a burst of heat in the center of her like she’s been thrown in the middle of a bonfire. It surges through her, flames and magic that lap at her bones and her joints, twisting around veins and settling into arteries. It wraps around every one of her vertebrae and makes Emma sit up straighter, a rush of feeling she’s never felt before. 

It is…wonderful. 

Every emotion, every thought, amplified and jumpstarting each inch of her. Her skin buzzes with it, something akin to excitement and nerves she hasn’t felt in years, gowns and tiaras and waiting to see a flash of white and the crisp fold of a uniform. It’s standing behind an apartment door that wasn’t hers, an unfamiliar city and fear that she couldn’t shake, an unexpected bit of something that was always just him and cinnamon in her coffee. 

“Oh shit,” Emma breathes, Killian groaning because it’s not dignified at all, but she’s never been a very good princess. 

“Swan, that’s…I just thought, maybe if I did it quickly it wouldn’t—”

She doesn’t let him finish. 

Emma surges up, hard enough that she nearly bites his lip in the process, but then his tongue is swiping across her mouth, hand flying into her hair and pulling her closer. Everything spins. Her head and her heart, and her stomach flips and flops and finds a rhythm that’s probably somewhat like a waltz and she can’t stop moving her hands. Emma lets her fingers trace over the back of his neck, the soft bumps of his spine and the end of his hair, tries to let each touch ground her, but flying is suddenly very appealing and seemingly possible and she makes a ridiculous noise when her shoulders collide with the wall. 

They laugh. Without moving away from each other. The sound hangs between them, a different kind of warmth and _T_ _rue Love,_ even when it’s not beating in her chest. 

“I love you,” she says again, wanting nothing more than to repeat it several thousand times. “And I--for what it’s worth, I would have stayed there.”  
  
“Where? In New York?”   
  
“Or Boston or Storybrooke. Any of them. I would have stayed. With you. Any realm, any version, because all of them find you stupid attractive.”

Killian’s head drops again, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. It’s slower than Emma would like, all that residual emotion, but she’s sure there’ll be time for that eventually and the hallway probably isn’t the best place for it anyway. “You’re a wordsmith, your highness.”

“Whatever, you’re into it.”  
  
“Aye, I am. Irrevocably.”   
  
“Good word.”   
  
He hums, nipping at the side of her jaw, but Emma’s eyes are starting to flutter and the jacket is warm and he’s warm and--”It’s ok, Swan,” Killian mutters, pressing the words into her hair as he lets her drape her legs over his. 

She has no idea how they do, eventually, get into a bed, but the pillows are soft and the arm around her waist holds her like he has no intention of letting go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> White Out is my favorite episode of OUAT forever and ever. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	23. Chapter 23

Elsa calls a council. 

It’s incredibly proper and entirely royal, a meeting of minds and titles and probably a few more adjectives that are less complimentary because, it seems, when those minds and titles get around a table in one of the rather large halls in the Arendelle castle, they are incapable of agreeing on much of anything. 

David keeps mumbling _diplomatic_ under his breath. 

“Do you think it’s possible for Regina’s face to get stuck like that?” Emma mumbles, leaning to her right and Killian has to bite his lip. It’s distracting. 

He glances at her, not much more than a passing look, but there’s amusement mixed in with the blue in his gaze and Emma lets her hand reach forward. Her fingers twist around the curve of his hook, cool metal that’s almost enough to center her because, really, this council has been nothing short of ridiculous. 

She supposes that’s how politics works. 

Even when they’re being diplomatic. 

“No, I think she’s just got a few extra muscles there,” Killian says. He’s incredibly bad at whispering. And Regina is very good at glaring at them. 

“If you two are quite done.”  
  
Emma scrunches her nose, a quick shake of her head. Regina rolls her eyes. 

It’s the third day they’ve done this and a little more than a week since the Misthaven royal family appeared in a cloud of purple smoke in a _different_ hall in a castle that is, seemingly, overflowing with a variety of large spaces. 

There’d been questions – mostly about how Emma had managed to get that bird to agree to fly to Misthaven, but Mary Margaret had been impressed by the whole thing and claimed Evan was very enthusiastic about his mission and--"Now, here we are, ready and willing to save the kingdom.”

And that was that. 

There were more birds sent out and missives, envoys in well-tailored uniforms sent on several different horses in a variety of directions, requesting the presence of every ruler of every kingdom. To save the kingdom. 

And set some ground rules. 

For the rest of everything. 

Emma nearly falls over when she hears the chair on her other side squeak, Ruby’s soft grumble barely audible over whatever kind of reaction Regina is currently making. Maybe they should have discussed how to act while taking part in a royal council. 

As it were, they’d spent most of the last week recounting adventures in seaside ports and Neverland, introducing Henry and trying to remember how, exactly, to move without tripping over the far-too-long hems of the dresses they were all wearing again. 

That might have been Emma. 

She really misses pants. 

She’s going to wear pants to the next royal council. Just to see what it does to Regina's face. And Arthur. She still kind of hates King Arthur. 

He’s most of the objections they’ve sustained in the last three days. 

“What are we talking about?” Ruby hisses, elbowing Emma in the side roughly. 

She groans, gritting her teeth and Regina has started to glare at the ceiling. “Why do you not know how to whisper?”

“I’m not really trying, if I’m being honest.”  
  
“That was rather obvious,” Killian mutters, and Emma is not surprised when Ruby sticks her tongue out at them. 

They are a picture of royal perfection. 

“I am bored,” Ruby whines, rolling her whole head with enough drama that Emma is sure they would be able to harness its power for good. “Arthur is suggesting that we need to redo the treaty again.”

Emma is going to sprain her jaw. She clenches it, tight enough to send a ripple of pain down either side of her neck and, possibly, up into her head, neurons firing in something resembling fury because he keeps doing this and she hadn’t really been paying attention. 

Like, at all. 

She’d been far too busy flirting. And trying to covertly look at Killian’s jacket. It’s new – everything they’re wearing is new, meetings with the official Arendelle seamstress, which, is, apparently a _thing_ and Emma’s only a little annoyed that her meetings have led to a mostly all-white wardrobe, something about _the savior_ and _meaning_ , but it had made Killian’s eyes widen slightly that morning and she likes this jacket a lot. 

Maybe the tension in her jaw is doing permanent damage to her psyche. 

She’s fairly positive the vest he’s wearing is leather too. 

It’s absurd. 

“I can hear you, you know,” Arthur drawls, seated at the other end of the table. That’s probably not a sign. He’d picked that seat anyway. 

And that’s probably because is he, at least a little, terrified of Emma. Or the sword strapped to Killian’s hip. 

“Yeah, I don’t think she was all that worried about it, really,” David shrugs. He leans forward, an appraising look on his face, like he’s getting ready to challenge the king of Camelot to more than one duel. 

Mary Margaret bites back a smile. “What is it this time, Your Majesty?”

“Oh shit, that was almost scathing,” Emma whispers. It’s not really a whisper. Regina looks like she’s about to slide out of her chair, directly onto the floor and blow a hole in the ceiling with a very large fireball. 

Killian grins. 

“His Majesty appears to be concerned about the decision to, simply, send Prince Hans back to the Southern Isles,” Ariel says, a forced calm in her voice when her fingers have started tapping an impatient rhythm on the table. 

“We’ve discussed this,” Elsa sighs. “I’m not interested in doing anything else. Hans is nothing more than an upstart and a mistake. He saw an opportunity to seize control of something that wasn’t his--”  
  
“--Sound familiar, Arthur?” Killian cuts in. There is no calm in _that_ question. It’s unspoken threat and narrowed eyes, but he leans back towards Emma like he can’t help himself and, eventually, she’s sure, she’ll be able to have a single, coherent thought about the state of his jackets. 

Will snickers, feet propped up on the edge of the windowsill on the other side of the room with Henry and Belle a few feet away, books strewn around them, and he’s doing that chair-leaning thing again. “He does bring up a very interesting point, Your Majesty,” Will says. “And I do believe you’re harping. It’s inefficient.”  
  
David hums in agreement, Regina throwing her whole arm over her face because, for the third straight day, this has dissolved, rather quickly, into a rather large farce.

Merida – the heir to the throne in DunBroch, or so Regina explained when the redhead appeared at the Arendelle gate with a quiver strapped to her back and a questionably large horse – scoffs. “Who are you again?” 

“Oh, that’s just rude,” Will grumbles. “We did introductions several days ago.”

“You’re not exactly a royal though, are you?” Princess Abigail, Midas’ daughter, asks archly. “I can’t understand why your opinion should...well, count.”

“Ah, so the rude thing, is just a sweeping pandemic now, huh?”

Mary Margaret tries to turn her laugh into a different noise, a spectacular fail that she does her best to wave off. “What?” she challenges. “That was actually funny.”  
  
“Oh, don’t tell him that,” Killian sighs. “We’ll never hear the end of it now.”

“Too late, Jones,” Will calls, slamming the feet of his chair back into the ground so he can pull out a deck of cards from his back pocket. Henry’s eyes practically light up. 

“And he does bring up a good point,” Ella admits. She and Thomas had arrived almost as soon as they’d sent out the missives, quiet smiles and curt nods that Emma hopes is, actually, some kind of sign because they seem nice and they could use some nice at this point. 

Will lets out a triumphant noise. “Thank you ma’am! That’s exactly what I was trying to do. Make a point. A good one, in fact.”  
  
“He can’t remember his point,” Killian mutters, barely loud enough for Emma to hear. 

Abigail’s eyes narrow, lips curling into something that can only be a little aggressive and maybe Emma will slide out of her chair before Regina. That would be impressive. 

“Alright, let’s get several things straight,” she bites out, frustration turning into anger and anger turning into words and her voice doesn’t shake. 

Killian is still smiling. 

“Hans is a non-factor,” Emma continues, “The only thing we need to be concerned with is getting him the hell out of Arendelle.”  
  
“Hear, hear,” Anna shouts, and Emma hadn’t seen her move away from the table, but she’s already got cards in her hand and a slightly disgruntled look on her face. “Wait, wait,” she adds, “what did you say was wild?”  
  
Henry groans. “Jokers, Ms. Joan. And what was the other one, Mr. Scarlet?”

There’s a collective laugh from the entire Misthaven contingent, lips tugged behind teeth and Killian’s whole body shakes while he does his best not to fall over. “Ok, don’t start,” Will warns. “At least the kid knows where to show some respect.”  
  
“And you still think you deserve that?” Arthur asks. The room goes incredibly quiet. 

Except for David’s mumbled _oh shit_. It’s not exactly mumbled. 

Regina pulls her arm away from her face slowly, sitting up straighter and turning so slowly Emma wonders if there’s actually magic involved. She can’t imagine having that kind of control over her limbs. 

“Too many muscles,” Killian mutters, Emma letting out a huff of something that isn’t a laugh, but may just be generic exhaustion and there’s been no mention of boxes or dates and she’s going to make him get several versions of this vest. 

“Thank you, Captain,” Regina says, eyebrows arching impossibly high. He salutes. And Regina keeps moving, twisting towards a wide-eyed and suddenly pale Arthur. “You have thoughts, Sir? Would you like to share them?”  
  
Arthur's eyes look like they’re trying to fly out of face. “Sir?” he echoes, voice managing to crack on each letter. “How dare--”  
  
“--No, no, no,” Regina interrupts, and she doesn’t actually stand up, but she somehow looks more intimidating this way. Her shoulders roll back, head tilted and a spark in her eyes that brokers no discussion. The flames crackling between her fingers help too. “You want our respect, Arthur? You get it when you deserve it.”  
  
“And you what? Assume that you can return here and take over again? Demand we all fall in line and fear you, the same way we did George?”  
  
“Oh my God,” David groans. “How many times do we have to go over this? George was an asshole. No one is trying to be him.”  
  
“The opposite, in fact,” Elsa adds, several nods from the Misthaven royal family. 

Arthur still doesn’t look convinced. He’s standing, palms flat on the table and enough tension between his shoulders that it almost looks like he’s actually carved of wood. Maybe they could just turn him into wood. 

Emma’s fairly certain she remembers a story like that from when she was a kid. 

“You took your men out of Misthaven, Arthur,” Mary Margaret points out. “You’ve met with Emma and David and Killian more times than we can count. But you’ve still got that fear in your eyes--”  
  
“--I’m not afraid of anything,” he shouts, but having to use those words kind of defeats the purpose of them. 

“We both know that’s not true, Sir.”

Anna laughs, the sound bouncing off walls and windows that are, mostly, clear of snow now, nothing more than a soft frost in the morning because it’s autumn and things are changing and shifting and Emma wants to stop thinking in metaphors. 

“What is it you’re looking for, Arthur?” Elsa asks. “Emma told me. They’ve given you every inch you’ve asked for, aside from letting you run rampant through their kingdom.”  
  
“A kingdom they deserted,” he growls. 

Killian runs his free hand over his face, fingers carding through his hair roughly. “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” he sighs. “Answer the bloody question, Arthur. What do you want?”  
  
The doors at the far end of the hall swing open –– a man and a woman and Arthur gasps loudly enough that they’ve almost circled back around to comical. “What the--” Emma starts, but she nearly chokes on her own tongue when she notices the look on Mary Margaret’s face. “M’s...what’s going on?”

Mary Margaret shakes her head slowly, jumping out of her chair and sprinting forward, crashing into the man’s chest. He catches her, tight arms and words mumbled into her hair, and Emma doesn’t know where to look. 

Her eyes flit towards David, surprise etched onto every inch of his face. 

“So, uh,” Ruby says, “this is something, huh?”  
  
“I thought you were dead,” Mary Margaret exclaims, working back onto her feet so she can rap her knuckles on the man’s armor. He’s wearing armor. The woman next to him looks incredibly amused. “George, he said--once he knew I wasn’t the Savior--”

Her breath catches, tears obvious even from the other side of the hall and David is half sitting, half standing now, hand drifting towards his sword like he’s getting ready to defend Mary Margaret if needs be. 

“It’s alright, Sparrow,” the man says, lips curling up into a smile when his thumbs brush away Mary Margaret’s tears. Emma isn’t sure how she moves, doesn’t remember deciding to shift her legs or unbend her knees, but she’s not sitting on her chair anymore, perched, instead, on Killian’s thigh with an arm tight around her waist. 

“That doesn’t exactly look particularly royal, Jones,” Will calls. Killian flips him off. 

“What are you doing here?” Mary Margaret asks. “How are you even here?”  
  
“And how did you get past the guards?” Elsa adds. 

The woman laughs – soft and almost tinkling, eyes flitting towards Arthur. He’s getting paler by the second. “Oh, your guards are perfectly competent,” she promises. “But we heard that you were looking to have all the royals in the Enchanted Forest here and--” She shrugs. “It seemed rude to decline the invitation.”

“You are not the rulers of Camelot,” Arthur sneers, and, really, that’s the last thing Emma expects to hear. Like. At all. 

He pounds his fists on the table, shaking the wood and leading to several swords drawn his direction. “I’d reconsider your next few movements,” David suggests, Kristoff half a step behind him with a look that makes it obvious he’s still not over being denied the chance to stab Hans.

“Can someone tell us who these people are?” Emma demands, waving a free hand towards the strangers. “And if we need to actually be braced for an attack.”  
  
The man chuckles. “No, no, Savior. Far from that. My name is Lancelot and--”

“--No, it’s not.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“Are you kidding me?” Emma balks, drawing a quiet laugh out of Ruby and Killian’s head falls against her shoulder. He kisses her back. That’s not very royal either. 

“I don’t believe so, no.”

“Ok, ok, I--well, ok. Mary Margaret, did you know Lancelot the whole time? Honestly?”  
  
Mary Margaret blushes slightly. “First of all, I was cursed. Second of all, do not ask me questions about Excalibur because, we all know, that’s a myth here and Ariel--”  
  
“--Those were good clues,” Ariel argues. “It’s not my fault Hook didn’t remember who he was, so he couldn’t appreciate them!”

“Thank you Fisk,” Killian mumbles, not lifting his head away from Emma. “Once again, you’re the biggest help in these conversations.”  
  
She makes a face oddly similar to the one Ruby pulled earlier, and it’s no wonder these other royals are convinced none of them are fit to rule anything. 

“I’m not disputing any of this,” Mary Margaret says. “But, um--well, our stories, our lives, really, are a lot different than the fairy tales they told in the Land Without Magic. And Lancelot--” She nods back towards the man who is starting to look a little stunned and Emma didn’t realize he was holding the other woman’s hand. Her gasp of understanding is impossibly loud. “--He’s the one who brought me to George.”

David leaps out of his chair, fury practically flickering around him, and Killian has to tighten his arm around Emma’s waist to make sure she doesn’t join him. “No, no,” Mary Margaret continues, “it’s not like that. It’s...Lancelot and I grew up together. But I had magic and George was always good at finding magic, wasn’t he? And making sure people would bring it to him.”  
  
“What does that mean?” David hisses. 

“My mother disappeared,” Lancelot answers. “Quickly. No trace. I’d never seen her use magic, but there were whispers--when I was young, that she had a connection to the power of the lake near our home and I--I knew what Mary Margaret could do. I thought...well, maybe if I gave George what he wanted, I could get what I wanted. I could get my mother back.”  
The silence echoes in the hall, most of the Misthaven contingent staring at him with open mouths and something almost resembling hatred. 

“Damn,” Ruby curses eventually. “That’s awful.”  
  
Lancelot nods. “It was. Is. I regretted it as soon as I decided and then there was no word of my mother, even after. I--I’m sure George had her killed.”

“He told me he’d gotten rid of my friend,” Mary Margaret whispers, more tears and a quiver to her voice. “He was...he was disappointed that all I could do was talk to animals.”  
  
“That’s impressive enough,” David shouts, and Mary Margaret flashes him a watery smile over her shoulder. 

“For you, maybe. Not for George. But I--I don’t understand. What happened to you, Lancelot? Are you part of Arthur’s court? I didn’t think there were actually any knights of the round table here. That’s just…”  
  
“...More legend,” Belle finishes. She’s holding cards as well. 

“It could have been real,” Arthur mutters, and every head in the hall turns towards him. His tone has shifted, low and calculated, the kind of voice that invades a desperate kingdom looking to cement his own power and Emma is running out of air to properly gasp.  
  
“That part of it’s true,” she muses. “Isn’t it?”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re suggesting.”  
  
She hums, turning slightly and Killian’s fingers have started drawing absent-minded patterns on her stomach. “Are you Guinevere, then?” Emma asks, more than a few curses from previously cursed royals who believed a different legend and managed to defeat darkness that way. 

The woman nods. 

“Holy shit,” Emma breathes. “Ok, ok, so, um, let me see if I can get this straight. So, everyone here knows George was a dick, right?” There’s a general murmur of agreement, although there are also a few stunned expressions and Killian mumbles _colloquialisms_ into her shoulder blade. “He was, that’s not up for debate. So...as we’ve told you all several thousand times, George was working for the Dark One the whole time. The Dark One wanted, well--me, I guess.”  
  
Killian’s arm tightens, David standing up straighter and Mary Margaret’s tears are falling for a different reason now. Will puts his cards down. 

Emma does her best to look consistently confident. 

“We tried to fight that,” she continues, “realized what was going on and did our best, but, well, you can see how that ended up. Anyway. We were gone. There was still dark magic in this realm and Arthur saw it as an opportunity to add some real estate to his kingdom.”

“He’d been obsessed with the Dark One since we were children,” Guinevere says softly. “Wanted to understand how to control him, harness that power and--”  
  
“--Harness it?”  
  
“Oh, yes. Was equally fascinated and terrified by it. And when all that was left in this realm was that darkness, Arthur saw it as a chance to assert himself, seize control as it were.”  
  
“By burning Misthaven,” David fumes, another nod and soft sound of pity from Guinevere. “And he’s what? Never going to agree to anything now that we’re back?”  
  
“He’s angry at us,” Lancelot adds. “All of us.”  
  
“Because of the what?” Will asks. “If I ever I should leave you, shit?”  
  
Lancelot blinks. 

“That reference went over everyone’s head, Scarlet,” Killian mutters, Will making a noise in the back of his throat. “You did take your men out of Misthaven though, Arthur. What is that? Conceding defeat?”  
  
“There is no defeat,” Arthur snaps. “Because we are not signing your treaty. Camelot is its own kingdom, functioning on--”  
  
“--Us now,” Guinevere smiles. It’s not exactly sweet. “That’s why we’re here, Arthur. Because the kingdom deserves a new chance, enough of the darkness and the desperation.”  
  
“Can someone explain what the hell any of you are talking about?” Ruby asks. “If this guy is the one who brought Mary Margaret to George, how’d he end up in Camelot?”  
  
“Guinevere just told you,” Lancelot says. “Arthur has been obsessed with the Dark One, his whole life. And when you lot were gone, that sentiment only grew. It’s one I shared for a time.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I regretted what I’d done to Mary Margaret. Knew I’d given her up to a man who--how did you word it, your highness?”  
  
Emma grins. “He was a giant and absolute dick.”  
  
“Yes, that, exactly. But once Misthaven was emptied, it was clear that darkness was still here. And stronger than ever. I thought I might be able to atone if I did my best to fight it. Only Arthur--he went too far. Started organizing the other kingdoms, even after the magic in this realm changed again. It never stopped. So, I--”  
  
“--Ran away,” Arthur screams, face going blotchy and Abigail makes another pointed noise at that. It’s not particularly royal. 

Emma wonders if this is all a dream. That would almost make sense at this point. 

“You didn’t stop, Arthur,” Guinevere says. “It was never enough. Another quest and another piece of research, all of it coming to nothing because the only one who could defeat the Darkness was her.” 

She nods towards Emma, still sitting on top of Killian’s leg. She should stand up. She should say something, smile or give some kind of allusion that she’s got a handle on any facet of her life, but mostly she just wants to come up with a few rules for all of these kingdoms and make sure the people in her kingdom are happy. 

Emma just wants to be happy.  
  
It doesn’t seem like that big of a request. 

“And we did that,” Emma adds. “The Dark One is gone, Arthur. There’s no threat of that coming back. The only thing that is back, is us and we are--”  
  
“--Heroes,” Elsa says suddenly, sliding to the edge of her chair and she’s got a crown on. She’s been wearing it since that _tomorrow_ she’d mentioned, a shimmer that is absolutely a byproduct of her own magic. “That’s it, isn’t it? It wasn’t perfect and it didn’t all go according to plan, but the prophecy is true now. The Swan and the Knight. Saving the future of magic and ensuring that we’re safe. We are safe now, Arthur.”

“Hear, hear,” Anna calls again, the card-playing, decidedly unroyal group around her throwing their hands up as well. 

“We’ve told you several times now, Arthur, all we wanted was to come home,” David says. “To protect our home. That’s it.” He sheathes his sword, but there’s still a hint of challenge and Emma can see the magic hovering just over his right boot. 

Mary Margaret reaches for his hand. 

“I think everyone deserves that,” Merida mutters, a return to the conversation that’s equal parts surprising and helpful. 

Another woman – dressed in head to toe armor with more than a few weapons buckled to her side and shiny, black hair that reflects the light in that hall – hums in what Emma hopes is, at least some, agreement. “The Dark One was a threat to all of us,” she says. “His defeat is something we should rejoice. Not a reason to question the royal family in Misthaven.”

“You weren’t so sure of that before,” Arthur says, accusation ringing in the statement. “Your king and queen were just as worried as I was. The same goes for your parents, Merida.”

“Oh, look, at that I was right,” Killian muses, hooking his chin over Emma’s shoulder. She leans back, not _really_ trying to burrow further against his chest, but his arm does tighten and she has to rest her hand on his thigh to keep her balance. 

Or so she’ll keep telling herself. 

“I told you that,” Kristoff mumbles. 

“Don’t take this victory from me.”  
  
“He’s showing off for the princess,” Ariel grins. She’s sitting on a windowsill again, cross legged with her elbows digging into her knees and, every now and then, she flashes a few fingers in Henry’s direction. 

They’re cheating at cards. 

It’s strangely comforting in the middle of a royal council that has dissolved into chaos. 

“That is kind of true,” Killian admits, pressing the words into the skin behind Emma’s ear and she would probably be embarrassed by the whole thing if she weren’t also half certain Merida and Mulan are currently also making eyes at each other. 

That’s also rather comforting. 

“Huh, so that is happening, right?” Ruby asks, Killian’s cheek brushing over Emma’s hair when he nods. “Right, right, ok, I just wanted to make sure.”  
  
“Things have changed, Arthur,” Mulan continues. “The Dark One is destroyed. The Savior has won. Misthaven has a royal family again. A warrior of true honor would understand that. He would not continue only to serve his own self-interest.”

Both Anna and Will shout _hear hear_ that time before Will grumbles _are you cheating_ as soon as Henry puts his cards down. 

“No, no,” Henry promises. “Not at all.”

Emma moves so quickly she nearly elbows Killian in both ribs with each of her arms. “Ah shit, sorry, sorry,” she babbles, but he just presses another kiss to her shoulder and it would be easier for his fingers to find skin if she weren’t wearing this dress.

Seriously, pants. Soon. 

One of the witches from Oz –- Emma genuinely can’t remember her name, but she’d appeared in a bubble and that was _a lot_ , honestly -- makes a noise of agreement. “There’s goodness here,” she announces, as if that doesn’t still manage to sound a little menacing. “A desire to help and they--” She waves her hand towards Emma and Killian. “Are at the very center of it.”

Arthur scoffs. “Them? Please. We know what he was. Even if it’s not true anymore, the pirate was half the reason Camelot had to defend itself!”  
  
“No, no, Arthur,” Lancelot objects. “That was only ever you. That’s why we’re here. The people have started to realize what you’ve done. A broken kingdom, sire. And it won’t be mended by you. Not now. Not after everything.”

“The Savior and her pirate have already done more for this realm than you could ever begin to dream,” Guinevere adds. “Look at this kingdom! Hans was--well, he was also a bit of a dick, wasn’t he?”

Mary Margaret’s hand flies to her mouth, still not able to keep her guffaw from flying out of her, and Emma’s eyes get so wide they actually start to water. Ruby’s head falls forward, landing with a thump on her forearms, while both David and Regina sport matching looks of surprise. 

“Aye, exactly that, your highness,” Killian says, smile obvious in every syllable. 

“I wasn’t sure if I was using it in the right context. It’s a very catchy saying, isn’t it?”  
  
“Something like that, absolutely.”

“Right, well, as you say. Hans did not belong on this throne. But you and the Sav--” She closes her mouth when she glances at Emma, gaze turning appraising and almost understanding, as if she realizes what that title weighs. “You and Emma,” Guinevere corrects. “Made sure that he couldn’t maintain it. You brought back Princess Anna, brought back Queen Elsa, even. At great personal expense.”  
  
“Something like that,” Killian repeats, Emma squeezing her hand lightly. 

“A good warrior knows when to retreat, Arthur,” Mulan says lightly. “Phillip and Aurora agreed to your terms in a different world. Those terms don’t hold anymore.”  
  
“Almost like your reasoning for attacking us to begin with,” David mutters. 

Arthur gapes at them, eyes darting from one royal to the next like one will, eventually, return to his side. None of them do. None of them say a single world, in fact, which doesn’t seem to bode very well for any of them, but then Regina coughs softly and her chair scrapes across the tile when she pushes back, enough _royalty_ to ensure several treaties get signed in the next few seconds. 

“Let’s make a few things clear, shall we, Arthur?” He doesn’t answer. Of course not. “You were obsessed and fascinated and terrified by the Darkness? So were we. We lived it, you coward. We were shaped by it, groomed for a battle that wasn’t ours until it was on our doorstep. We were bartered and captured, kidnapped by even those with the best intentions.”  
  
She glances over her shoulder at a repentant-looking Lancelot, a strange string of limbs with one hand still wrapped up in Guinevere’s and the other laced with Mary Margaret’s. Mary Margaret is also holding David’s hand. 

“You made mistakes,” Regina continues, “we all did. We--Gods, that curse was a disaster, wasn’t it?”  
  
“It wasn’t the best,” Killian agrees, the feel of his upturned lips obvious on the side of Emma’s neck as soon as she leans further back. She’s started toying with the edge of his jacket. 

“We’ve been over this, Arthur,” Emma adds. “Our magic isn’t something to be feared. It’s the deck we were dealt, that’s it.”  
  
Will groans. “If you keep making jokes, I’m not going to have a job, Em!”  
  
“You are not actually the court jester,” Ruby points out, but Henry is laughing loudly and Belle looks consistently charmed by this and maybe they can just be good royals by being themselves.

That’s a kind of a nice thought. 

“I mean, we could probably do something about that if he’s really determined,” Regina muses. “Maybe after all of this though. Priorities.”  
  
“Regina, was that actually a joke?” Emma asks, both Ruby and Mary Margaret exclaiming in what may actually be delight. 

The other royals look stunned. 

So, maybe they’ll have to temper back some of their honest personalities. 

“It happens,” Regina mutters, David already objecting and Killian mumbling what sounds like _that’s never happened, ever_ under his breath. Regina blushes. This may actually be a dream. “Oh, whatever,” she grumbles. “The point I am trying to make and really--not just to Arthur, to all of you, is that we understand your anger. We’re still angry. At everything done to us and done because of us and by us and if we could change things, we would.”

She turns to Emma, the ends of her mouth tugging up. “But,” Regina says pointedly, “the past is something that is, unfortunately, set in stone. Not a sword in a stone, but--”  
  
“--See,” Ariel cries. “She would have understood my references.”  
  
“I was cursed, Fisk,” Killian hisses. She ignores him, far too busy trying to make the clubs symbol with her hands. 

“We aren’t asking for anything from any of you,” Emma says, sitting up straighter. That only pulls her back closer to Killian’s chest though and it probably shouldn’t make her feel more confident, but that’s another deck she’s been dealt or however the metaphor about True Love should work. “Honestly. And we--well, prophecy lasts a lifetime, doesn’t it? We all have magic, we all have power and we’re not opposed to using either one of those things in the future. For good.”

There’s a murmur from the other Misthaven royals, encouraging smiles and even Elsa nods, promises on their lips that Emma fully expected them to make. It’s nice all the same. 

“These kingdoms were allied before,” Emma continues, “but only because George was a threat. And the Dark One was looming. Those are gone. We’ve made sure of that.”  
  
“What are you asking us for, Emma?” Merida questions, and she can’t help the laugh that flies out of her. 

Killian’s hand stills, understanding even in the lack of movement. 

“Nothing,” Emma replies. “There’s no bartering here. No back and forth. No magic for magic. I--I’ve seen that already and I’ll be honest, I’m not all that interested.”

“And you’ve got the authority to do that?” Abigail counters. “If memory serves, even before you lot disappeared, after George had locked himself in his tower, you weren’t the acting monarch were you, Emma?”  
  
And, that time, the murmur that comes out of the Misthaven royals, and Elsa, is a little less understanding, an edge to the noise that’s reminiscent of defenses and a childhood spent protecting each other. 

“Oh, you may want to try that again,” David suggests. “Killian, take a deep breath.”  
  
Emma doesn’t have to turn around to know how thin Killian’s eyes have gone narrow. She can feel his chest shift against her though, Abigail’s expression turning timid the longer no one else says anything. “Well,” she reasons. “It’s a fair question.”  
  
“Is it, though?” Ruby asks. “Honestly?”

“Are some of you worried that we’re actually...going to fight each other?” Mary Margaret whispers. “For the rule of Misthaven?”  
  
Arthur clicks his tongue. “It’s been known to happen before.”  
  
“Fucking hell, Arthur, shut up,” David roars. “Abigail, that is not something that’s going to happen. We’re--well, we’re a family. Our only interests are the ones that benefit the future of Misthaven and--”  
  
“--Emma has all of that power, though,” Abigail objects. “Even Glinda said it. The Swan and the Knight. We’ve all heard the prophecy. What’s to say we agree to your terms and she suddenly decides she wants a little more?”  
  
David exhales. That’s probably the best reaction. Until Killian reacts. 

“She’s the bloody Savior,” he shouts, loud enough that Emma winces at the sound reverberating in her ear. “You think she’s suddenly going to turn into a power-hungry royal? No, no, we’ll leave that to the rest of you.”

Abigail seems very interested in her hands all of the sudden. “There has never been a kingdom with multiple rulers,” she mumbles. “It just--it simply isn’t done that way.”  
  
“Oh, that’s not entirely true,” Belle objects, Killian’s quiet laugh bordering close to pride as soon as she jumps up and leaves a small pile of cards in her wake. “It’s happened several times in history. A whole family and mutual interests being served, I mean...think about England.”  
  
“England,” Abigail repeats dubiously. “Which part of the Enchanted Forest is that in?”

“Is that honestly the real name of this place?” Will crows, nearly falling back in his chair again. 

Emma sighs. She hopes they don’t have to actually use the guards to escort Arthur out of Arendelle. “That’s not the point,” Emma says. “The point is, and seriously, this is the last time we’re doing this, I am not looking to take over anything. I was supposed to defeat Darkness, I--” 

She twists, not entirely comfortable, but absolutely necessary and Killian’s smile feels as if it slinks its way down her spine and settles her magic. 

“We,” Emma amends, “did that. And so we’ve done enough. We’ve done Neverland and getting Hans out of Arendelle. We’ve comforted people whose entire homes were destroyed by Arthur. We understand what you went through and know some of that was our fault, but that’s different now. All we’re looking for is for you to trust us. No one is coming for your kingdoms. No one is looking for magic or the chance to intimidate anyone. All we’re looking for is exactly what David told you, to return home and start over. For the better, for all of us.”

No one says anything. 

No one even moves. 

And for a moment Emma doesn’t dare to breathe, eyes wide and lips parted slightly, but then she can feel the flutter of fingers tracing over the curve of her hip and her magic rises, a soft wave that’s a bit like the tide and a hint like the waltz she’s determined to get at some point and--

“Camelot pledges its loyalty to the royal family of Misthaven,” Guinevere says, nothing but confidence in her voice and Killian’s exhale makes Emma’s magic soar. 

Arthur pales. “You can’t do that!”  
  
“Ok, but I--I just did, so…”

Guinevere shrugs, Lancelot chuckling lightly with a kiss pressed to the top of her head and Emma’s jaw drops even further. She glances a Ruby, an almost identical expression on her face. Mary Margaret’s got her hand over her mouth again. 

“You’ve gone too far, Arthur,” Guinevere continues. “And you’ve known this was coming for ages. All of it, you--”  
  
“--I am the king of Camelot,” he shouts, stumbling back with hands that can’t seem to grasp his sword. “This is my decision and you’ve all agreed to stand with me and--” Arthur nearly trips over his own feet, a clack of metal from the chain mail under his shirt and the hilt of his sword slamming into his stomach when he manages to get it out of its scabbard. 

“That was different,” Merida says evenly, but Emma can see her fingers fluttering at her side and maybe next time they hold a council they’ll make everyone forego their weapons. 

“You’ll regret that!”

Merida hisses in a breath, standing up with an arrow pinched between her fingers. Mulan’s sword is half pulled out and even David’s trying to move Mary Margaret behind him.

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles, a soft laugh on her neck when Killian shifts her off his leg. He stands slowly, not trying to move her any further, and, eventually, she’ll think that may be her favorite part of the day, but then he pulls his sword out and tilts his head slightly, narrow eyes and a certain set of his mouth that’s nothing short of a threat. 

He smiles. 

And it’s not kind. It’s not Emma’s. It’s sinister, almost, a sneer and every single one of his teeth, the tip of his tongue swiping across his bottom lip. 

“I’d put the sword down, Arthur,” Killian murmurs, a slight flinch when Emma’s magic sparks. The ball of light in her palm doesn’t touch her skin, but it’s bright enough to reflect of the metal of his sword and she needs to get him a new sword. 

Maybe she’ll ask in Arendelle. They did such a good job with the jacket. 

“Or what?” Arthur challenges. “You’ll kill me? That’s only proving my point. You do not belong here. None of you do, not anymore. This realm doesn’t need you! And we certainly don’t want you. Especially,” he adds, voice dropping with the weight of the next few words, “a villain and a pirate who destroyed everything he--”  
  
“--Enough,” Emma snaps. The light in her hand explodes, bathing the entire room in a near-blinding glow and she’s never moved that quickly. She nearly over-spins, the ends of her dress fluttering around her heels and she’s got to get used to heels again, but she’ll worry about that later. After her hand lands on Killian’s cheek, stubble on the inside of her palm and the feel of his jaw clenching against her skin. 

“Shit,” Will muses, entirely un-royal and absolutely accurate. “You’re a total asshole, huh?”  
  
Guinevere still hasn’t moved, but her eyebrows shift slightly. As if she’s not surprised. At all. “You never understood, Arthur,” she mutters, “never. That there’s more to this. Being alive...being in love. Caring about anything except your own interests. Camelot will be better off without you. And this realm is better now that they have returned. All of them.”

“DunBroch agrees,” Merida says. She tosses the arrow on the table, a move Emma hopes is some type of respect. “We’ve already seen magic change with your return.”  
  
“As have we,” Mulan adds, and Glinda nods in agreement. Emma’s still really curious about the bubble thing. She’s fairly certain it personally offended Regina. “You have our loyalty as well.”

There’s a hum of agreement around the room, Arthur sputtering and stammering until David pulls his sword away from him, but Emma keeps her hand in the same spot, eyes tracing across Killian’s face, looking for something she hopes she doesn’t find.

“I’m fine, love,” he breathes, a quick kiss between her eyebrows. 

“Arendelle as well,” Elsa says, and Killian’s arm wraps around Emma’s waist when she spins again. “Our full support and alliance and any other politically correct word or description you can come up with.”

“I could probably figure out a few,” Belle grins.  
  
“I defer to your expertise.”  
  
Emma’s smile feels impossibly large, a surge of hope and burst of magic directly underneath Killian’s hand, but then goddamn Glinda starts shaking her head slowly and she’s certain everything is going to go to complete and utter shit again. 

Mary Margaret’s eyes widen. “What?”  
  
“I’m afraid Elsa won’t be able to agree,” Glinda explains, “without actually being crowned queen. Despite his departure from the kingdom, King Hans is still, technically, the ruler here.”  
  
“Departure,” Kristoff echoes and Belle mumbles _politically correct_ under her breath. “So, what? You’re saying we have to have some kind of ceremony?”  
  
“A party,” Anna cries. She nearly knocks over the cards when she jumps up again, Will and Henry grumbling in displeasure. “Oh, stop, I was winning anyway.”  
  
Will huffs. “That is not how poker works at all.”  
  
“Poker, Scarlet?” Killian asks. “Honestly?”  
  
“Don’t go all royal on me, Jones. You’re just frustrated you didn’t get to play.”  
  
Killian doesn’t answer, Emma’s smile still there and turning a little teasing when she tries not to laugh too loudly. It’d be inappropriate in their current situation. David’s still trying to restrain Arthur. “Better at dice anyway,” Killian mumbles. 

“And not quite a party,” Glinda corrects, Elsa’s face dropping with realization. “A coronation. You need to make this official, Your Majesty. After everything that’s happened, I think following protocol and tradition will serve us well.”  
  
“This is my kingdom, though,” Elsa argues. “I shouldn’t be crowned for show.”  
  
“I’m afraid the only way Oz will agree with this is if there is a coronation. You open the gates, allow the kingdom in, invite every land. Show that you are committed to running Arendelle, instead of running from it. Again.”  
  
Ruby lets out a low whistle. “Wow, that’s super harsh.”

“And true,” Elsa mumbles, glancing at Regina. “What do you think?”  
  
Regina makes a noise in the back of her throat – a little frustrated, a little accepting, entirely royal. Maybe that’s a step in the right direction. “It might be a good idea. Let your people know you’ve returned, have no intention of leaving again and make sure that the cut between Arendelle and Hans is severed completely.”  
  
“The past must be discarded,” Glinda continues, and Emma does her best to keep her face even at the absurdity of that particular sentence. She can feel Killian’s chest shift against her back. “A new era in this realm, with optimism and--”

“--So, it’s really a party, then?” Anna interrupts. “Because we should probably get some chocolate or something.”  
  
Glinda’s mouth parts with a soft pop, Elsa shaking her head slightly and Kristoff’s laugh may actually do permanent damage to the structural integrity of the hall. It’s loud and joyful and party might not be a bad word. 

“Let’s cross that bridge in a little while,” Elsa says. “Maybe after we’ve all gotten something to eat first?”

It’s a dismissal without actually saying the words, the doors opening by guards who are very good at reading their soon-to-be official queen’s expressions, and the table clears out slowly. There are muttered acknowledgements, hopes for a treaty _very soon_ and Mulan apologizes that Aurora and Phillip couldn’t be there. 

Again. 

She does it every time they disperse. 

And then they’re gone. Arthur is escorted out by a different set of guards, Guinevere and Lancelot promising to _take care of it_ , which is only a little menacing, but Emma’s gotten used to _very_ menacing, so this is almost a victory. 

David drops into the nearest chair, barely making it in the seat, legs splayed out in front of him. He lets his sword clatter to the ground. “Well,” he mumbles, head in his hands, “that went great, didn’t it?”  
  
“It definitely could have been worse,” Regina reasons. 

“How? How is that possible?”  
  
“We got people to agree with us, David. Pledges of--oh, shit, fealty sound archaic doesn’t it?”  
  
“Something about tradition, probably,” Elsa grumbles. She’s moved away from the table, dropping back-to-back with Anna and there are half a dozen snowflakes fluttering between her fingers. “How long do coronations normally last?”  
  
Ruby’s lips twitch. “Long. There will probably be trumpets.”  
  
“Oh Gods.”  
  
“Can we focus on the positives, please?” Regina sighs. “A lot of good things happened and--”  
  
“--A lot of stupid things,” Emma cuts in. 

Killian tugs her back with him when he sits down again, nipping at her shoulder blade. “It’s definitely Scarlet playing poker during a royal council.”  
  
“As has been pointed out several times, I am not royal,” Will argues. “And, I am doing the kid a service here.” He nods in Henry’s direction, curled against Belle’s side now with her fingers in his hair and his eyes obviously closed. “Real, useful life skills.”  
  
“You’re turning him into a degenerate.”  
  
“King Arthur of Camelot called you a pirate today. As an insult. Let’s keep degenerate where it belongs, huh?” Killian scoffs, chin bumping Emma’s back when he nods. “Plus,” Will adds, “if you and Emma are going to adopt this kid you just---found, then we’ve got to make sure he’s well-rounded.”  
  
“We’re not adopting him,” Emma objects, not sure why that’s suddenly so difficult to say. Her stomach lurches, though, a spike in her center that’s a little painful and very magical. 

Will doesn’t look convinced. Mary Margaret looks offended. “Arthur won’t be a problem,” she promises. “Guinevere’s got just as much power in that kingdom as he does. So if she’s decided to align with us, then I think we’re ok?”  
  
“You think,” Ruby repeats dubiously. “Are we not going for sure?”  
  
“And we’re really going to trust the guy who turned you over to George?” Emma asks. 

Mary Margaret clicks her teeth. “Ok, this is kind of mean,” she wavers, “but uh--”  
  
“--You kind of did,” David finishes. His head is hanging over the back of the chair now. “Technically, you know.”  
  
“Killian is not Liam,” Emma points out, and those words hurt too. Damn. She wants to go back to their rooms. “I guess I just wasn’t expecting to be thrown into the middle of some Camelot love triangle. The whole thing is getting very complicated.”

Will starts humming under his breath – lyrics to a song Emma is only vaguely familiar with, but Ariel looks overjoyed and--”I know that song,” she cries, more than a few exclamations of _quiet_ thrown her way when Henry stirs. “And that whole thing is wrong. The legend in the Land Without Magic is far more dramatic. You know, Hook, maybe that’s it. Arthur’s just jealous of your very fancy sword.”  
  
“You’re the one who made it seem like Excalibur, Fisk.”

“Ah, I set that joke up for you so well and you just...left it there.”

He hums, a shift in his eyebrows Emma doesn’t have to see to be aware. “I’ve grown, you see. Matured, even.”  
  
“Gotten less...Dark One’y.”  
  
“Aye, that too.”  
  
“Still a pirate though.”

Killian doesn’t answer, but David’s head snaps up, eyes wide like he’s only just remembered something important. “Also, it hasn’t been said yet, but we’re all a little annoyed you didn’t invite us on your pirate adventure.”

“None of us were upset by that,” Regina promises. 

“Mostly that you just didn’t tell us,” Ruby amends. “Tell us before you adopt the magic kid, ok?”  
  
“You’re being ridiculous,” Emma says. 

“Am I, just?”  
  
“Do you want to plan a coronation or not?”

“No,” Elsa responds at the same time Anna shouts “yes” and they wake Henry up almost immediately. 

They spend a few more hours in that hall – Elsa calling for food and an impossible amount of chocolate because, as Anna continuously points out, _I was stuck in a cage, I’m going to eat my weight in chocolate_ and no one seems to able to argue with that. There are decisions made and more than a few debates, Belle combing through comically large tomes that burst with dust every time she flips a page, trying to find out how the last twenty Arendelle monarchs have been crowned and each discovery suggests more grandeur. 

By the end of it all, Elsa is lying on the floor – in between Emma and Anna, more snowflakes falling in soft piles by their head – with Mary Margaret curled into a different chair and Ruby perched on the windowsill next to the one Ariel has claimed. Belle’s legs are draped over Will’s, a book still in her hand, while Killian tries to translate something that may be ancient runes and David paces a small circle into the floor. 

“You’re going to ruin your boots,” Emma muses, and while he doesn’t break stride, his lips do twitch up, a quick flash of his eyes her direction. 

“You’re not a cobbler.”  
  
“And you’re worrying. What about? Lancelot?”  
  
“No,” David says quickly. His pace picks up, and Killian makes a contrary noise on the other side of the hall. “Oh, shut up, Jones.”  
  
Killian salutes, Emma propping herself up on her elbows and trying to level David with her best accusatory stare. It just makes her head hurt. That may be all the chocolate she’s had. 

“It’s going to be ok.”  
  
David stops pacing. “Is that positivity I hear?”  
  
“It is an attempt.”  
  
“It’s impressive.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma groans. “Your compliments are really ringing true. I’m just--I don’t know, maybe Glinda was right. We’re always going to be everything we were. Magic and makeshift royal and out-of-place pop culture knowledge, but focusing on the past is only going to drag us down and then everything’s going to suck.”

David chuckles, a click of boots moving towards Emma that aren’t his. Emma takes Killian’s hand as soon as she sees his fingers. “Eloquent as always, love,” he says, pulling her up with ease. “C’mon, if I look at anymore of those symbols, I’m going to go cross-eyed.”  
  
“It’d be a look.”  
  
“Gods, do you two ever stop?” David whines. 

Emma shakes her head. “I hope not.”

She doesn’t let go of his hand while they walk down the hall, torches lit with a slightly different glow than the one she’d caused that afternoon. He has to twist around her to open the door to their room, and there’d never really been any discussion of that, no questions about propriety or that pesky tradition that Arendelle seemed so fond of. 

It just was. 

With a bed Emma is considering stealing when they leave.  
  
“How difficult do you think it would be to commandeer a feather bed?” she asks, appreciating whatever her question does to every inch of Killian’s face. 

He arches an eyebrow, eyes drifting up her body like he’s taking stock of each part and the twist of his lips is entirely unfair. There are a few pieces of hair stuck up in the back, and Emma knows he’d been running his fingers through it, trying to figure out what, exactly, Elsa has to hold in order to assume the throne, but the whole look makes him a little unruly and decidedly piratical and she yanks on the front of his jacket. 

At first, it’s mostly just to get him closer, but then Emma can see the flash in his eyes and the want in his gaze and she tilts her head up and he bends his neck down, the curve of his hook digging into her back and making her arch further against him. He groans. She kisses him.

Hard. 

Emma pulls in a breath, heartbeat turning staccato in her chest and she’s thankful for the heels now. It makes it easier to move her arm, a hand in his hair and the other flat against his chest, memorizing the beat of his pulse in a way that’s only kind of weird and possibly possessive. 

“Gods, but you are distracting, you know that?” Killian mutters, and Emma must make a noise because she can hear something, a laughter that flutters out of her and bounces off the walls.

“Ok, but that’s not an answer to the bed question.”  
  
“I’m sure we could get a very similar bed at home, Swan.”

Her eyes close of their own accord as soon as she processes _that_ word, one that never really had much meaning before and it’s still not enough. Not years and a field or the smell of salt in the air, stolen toffee and fingers dancing on her skin. It’s not leather or a glint of light bouncing off the edge of a sword. 

It’s more. It’s bigger. And it’s...again. It’s soft and easy and it’s always been that. 

From the very start. 

“The one normal thing,” Emma whispers, repeating words from a life that feels like a dream now. Until. Until she lets her eyes flicker up to find Killian staring at her, wonder and love and--"You’re trying to figure out how to get this bed out of here, aren’t you?”  
  
“It was your idea!”  
  
“You’d probably have to use the window, right?”  
  
“Or magic.”  
  
“You want me to magic a feather bed? Where?”  
  
Killian shrugs, nudging her closer to the bed and Emma doesn’t try to temper her magic. “Be easier with a ship,” he mutters, an admission that might not be that, but her magic jumps anyway and she’s going to fix that too. 

Save it, as it were. 

Emma hums, flopping back on soft blankets and cloud-like pillows, half a plan and a smile that makes her cheeks ache, Killian catching her lips again as soon as he lets the jacket fall to the floor. And she’s not sure how long they spend in that bed, roaming hands and that goddamn tongue thing, but his breathing evens out eventually, her smile still there and the soft heat in the very center of her makes it feel as if her heart expands, warding off the chill in the air and the past that isn't quite as formidable anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	24. Chapter 24

“A ship in a bottle?”  
  
“Yup.”   
  
“Like. A bottle. An actual bottle?”   
  
“Regina, why would I make this up?” Emma asks, slumping further into the chair she’s considering never getting out of. Regina glares at the mirror in front of her, not able to actually turn towards Emma without facing the wrath of the woman currently pinning her dress together. 

“That is fair,” Mary Margaret reasons. She’s also being pinned, standing on a short stool on the other side of the room with her hair piled on her head because the top of her gown is only a little ostentatious and there may be hand-stitched flowers involved. 

Regina’s glare gets more potent. 

Emma is worried for the future of the mirror. The last thing they need to do is start destroying mirrors. Bad luck, or whatever. 

“Blackbeard claimed that Ursula did it,” Emma continues, “some punishment for giving Killian the bean--”

“--To get to you,” Regina finishes.

“Yes, thank you.”  
  
“I’m just trying to get all the moving parts of this story to stay still for a moment.”   
  
“It is pretty romantic, don’t you think, though?” Mary Margaret asks. Emma makes a noise – mostly because it is pretty romantic, but she also knows that there’d been darkness involved and Killian may be ok, technically, they’re both be ok, _technically_ , but his ship is also in a bottle and there’s a self-loathing streak that runs a mile-wide between the pair of them. 

Emma is going to fix this. 

She just can’t figure out how. 

“Here,” she says, twisting in the chair again until her legs are pulled up against her chest. One of the Arendelle women clicks her tongue in reproach, probably because Emma has refused to be measured for her gown and came into the room wearing actual pants, but it’s also the most comfortable she’s been in days and--”Look at this.” 

Emma brandishes the bottle in the air, meeting Regina’s eyes in the mirror. Eyes that go very thin, very quickly. “I’ve done everything I can think of,” she adds. “Focused my magic, tried to coerce the magic on it--”  
  
“--Wait, wait,” Regina interrupts sharply. “There’s magic on it? Still?”   
  
“It feels that way. Almost like it’s pushing back on me.”   
  
“Huh.”   
  
“That’s it? That’s the best you’ve got?”   
  
Regina shrugs -- only to be immediately reprimanded by a woman with what must be an unnecessary amount of pins in her hand. “Gods,” Regina grumbles. “Relax, I’m barely even moving. Emma, is there water in it?”   
  
“And did you steal that?” Mary Margaret adds, words shaking when she tries not to laugh. Emma presses her lips together. “Oh, you did, didn’t you? So what--he’s got no idea that you’ve copped his pirate ship?”   
  
Regina is definitely moving now. Her shoulders are shaking. They’re going to get banished from Arendelle for refusing to follow the rules of dress-fitting. “The pirate ship in a bottle,” she says, something almost resembling a smile on her face. 

The door swings open, colliding with a wall and, honestly, they’re never going to get new clothes again. Regina throws her hands up, flames flickering around her fingers as soon as Emma slams her feet onto the ground, her own magic surging under her skin and even Mary Margaret’s standing a bit straighter, a noise just audible outside the window. 

Bird wings. 

“What the hell is this?” Ruby demands, Will half a step behind her and sounding a little out of breath. She gapes at them, a skeptical look on her face because they all look like they’ve lost their minds. 

“Why do you not know how to enter a room normally?” Regina challenges. She blinks, the flames retreating back to wherever they actually go, and the woman next to her has dropped all of her pins. She looks very pale. 

Emma shakes her head. “It’s ok,” she says, not sure, exactly, who she’s talking to. Maybe herself. Her knuckles have gone very white around the bottle in her hand. “Just--Ruby is enthusiastic.”  
  
The pin-lady hums, neither an agreement nor disagreement, but rather something that sounds a bit like a condemnation and Regina throws her whole head back when she sighs. Ruby makes a face. “Jeez,” she mumbles, moving further into the room and hooking her foot around the empty chair next to Emma. “Tough crowd, huh? Did we get to the fun part yet?”   
  
Emma blinks. “What fun part?”   
  
“I’m going to assume that’s a no.”

“You’re a genius,” Regina drawls, hardly looking surprised when Ruby rolls her eyes. “And we’ve encountered a rather unexpected issue in the plan.”

“I figured that was just a rule for us at this point.”

“Ah, that’s decidedly negative,” Mary Margaret says. She hisses when a pin pricks her skin, a soft exclamation of pain that leaves _her_ seamstress mumbling apologies under her breath. “And weren’t you supposed to bring David with you?”   
  
Emma is going to crack the bottle. Maybe that will actually help. That’s one of the few things she hasn’t tried yet. 

“He’s doing something else,” Ruby answers. “Something with Kristoff. Explaining captain of the guard duties. Or, you know, something. So I brought a replacement.”

“In a way that doesn’t sound as much like a lie as that,” Will says. He kicks the door closed behind him, flashing a smile at the pin-lady because that’s not very royal either. They’re all exceptionally bad at this. “And,” he adds, “David said that he didn’t want to see Mary Margaret’s dress before the ceremony. Something about that pesky tradition Elsa hates so much.”  
  
“I think you’re mixing references,” Emma mutters. 

Ruby hums in agreement, dropping back into the chair and draping her legs over the side. It makes her skirt look even more voluminous than it is, far too many layers and pieces of fabric and Emma refuses to acknowledge the metaphor there. It’s ridiculous anyway. “Is whatever you’re holding our unexpected and possibly negative issue?”  
  
“The issue itself isn’t negative,” Mary Margaret argues, but Emma’s already nodding, loosening her grip on the bottle and it takes her a moment to realize Will is staring at her. 

And cursing. 

Loudly. 

“That seems like a very negative issue. Here, shove over,” he adds, trying without much success to move Ruby. She growls at him, kicking back as soon he gets an arm around her waist, moving her himself. 

Emma nods, the tip of her tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek because she hasn’t known Will Scarlet very long, but he’s got a rather obvious _thinking_ face. It leaves his forehead slightly wrinkled. “Cursed by Ursula and putting up quite a fight of returning to its correct size.”   
  
“Shit, she was the worst. So, what? You’ve been trying to fix a boat?”   
  
“Ship.”   
  
“Ah, whatever,” Will mumbles. “Is it magical?”

“Were you a scholar in the Land Without Magic?” Regina mutters, Will huffing in response. That might be Ruby’s fault though. She’s perched on his left leg, her whole body shaking with the force of her cackle and he has to move his arm to make sure she doesn’t inadvertently elbow him in the side. 

It doesn’t work.   
  
“It’s very magical,” Emma responds. “But that’s the part I don’t get. I’m--well, I’m me. And Ursula isn’t in this realm anymore--”   
  
“--But she had magic here,” Will interrupts. “And you and Jones brought magic back. I mean...like, across the board.”   
  
“Where are you going with this?”   
  
“Fuck if I know. I guess it’s not entirely surprising that the magic is holding. You said it, you’re here, Em. The future of magic and all that shit.”   
  
“You think the ship is staying in the bottle because I’m making sure the magic still exists?”   
  
Will shrugs, and Emma is certain she can actually hear the gears working in Regina’s head. “Oh, that makes sense,” Regina breathes, a soft laugh and another muttered string of words that ends with her hiking up the ends of her dress and spinning on the stool to stare at Emma. “You said there’s water in there, right?”

“Yuh huh.”  
  
“It’s not the bottle. It’s the water. Ursula could control the water and--well, how did she shrink it?”   
  
Emma is going to say something sarcastic. It will be snarky and un-royal and it will get Regina to stop staring at her like that. But then. “Oh fucking hell,” she whispers, Will snickering and Ruby not appreciating the way it makes her shake on his leg. “Blackbeard said they were on the water when it happened. He’d been sailing and Killian was already gone and the Dark One showed up on deck and--” She exhales, a quick swipe of her tongue over her teeth because this makes sense and she’s very glad Will is there. With his thinking face. “He said Ursula did it, the shrinking, I mean. And I never really thought about it, but that’s got to be what happened, right?”   
  
“You’re making zero sense,” Ruby says. “And it’s going to be really hard to get to the fun stuff if you don’t have a ship to follow through on the plan.”   
  
“Wait, what?”   
  
Emma’s lungs need to be studied. She tilts her head, confusion rippling down her spine, but then Will’s groaning and still staring at her. She doesn’t blink. “Ursula attacked us with all that water in the bar, right?” he asks. “And that’s how she cursed Jones too. Added a bit of something to the water so it would fuck up the bean when he used it.”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma agrees. “Keep going.”   
  
“The water is the thing, Em. She could manipulate it, magic it, whatever, to do anything she wanted. And then she’d just...sing people into insanity.”   
  
“I’m sorry, she’d what?” Mary Margaret sputters. She steps away from another round of measurements, sinking onto the edge of her stool in a cloud of fabric and flowers and more than a few unstitched strings. 

“She was a siren,” Emma explains. “She was trying to get Killian to remember things by playing music in the bar. And, you know...drowning us.”  
  
“Right, right, right. That leaves the Jolly where, exactly?”   
  
“Shrunk,” Regina answers. “By magical water that’s still touching the ship. As long as the water is in there, then---” She trails off with a huff of frustration, eyes flitting towards Ruby with unspoken plans that are only a little annoying. 

Emma clicks her teeth. “What aren’t you saying? I mean...this is not great, but if we can’t figure it out--”  
  
“--No, no, you can,” Will cuts in. He nearly throws Ruby on the ground when he jumps up, an exuberance and energy that she’s not sure she’s ever seen from him before. It’s impressive. “You’ve got to counter the water.”   
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“The water is the magic, right? And you’ve been...what? Battling a bottle?”   
  
“It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that.”   
  
“Well,” Regina muses, and Emma is only a little disappointed that her several thousand scathing retorts die on the tip of the tongue she’s currently sticking out. 

“I mean, it is a little bit,” Will reasons. “But I get it. You think it’s all about the cage and it’s not. It’s about what’s inside the cage.”  
  
“This is getting way too existential for me,” Ruby mutters. “We’ve got to get the ship out of there, Em. That’s really the point.”   
  
“What’s that now?” Emma asks, not sure where to let her gaze land. Everyone looks increasingly guilty and surprisingly hopeful, Will asking the pin-lady if he can borrow her notepad because he’s got ideas for fighting magical water. “Scarlet, what are you doing?”   
  
Ruby groans. 

“No, no, this is important if you’re going to do this, Rubes,” he promises, brows furrowing in what Emma assume is concentration. “Em, listen to me. The bottle isn’t the issue. It’s the water that Ursula used because, let’s be honest, she could fuck with water.”  
  
“What a ridiculous sentence.”   
  
“Yeah, well, I’m stuck in some magic realm and my best friend’s a pirate with a ship stuck in a bottle that his magic girlfriend can’t figure out, so maybe this is just how things are going to go from now on.”   
  
“You been holding that in for awhile, huh?” Ruby muses, Will shaking his head because Emma can only imagine the look on her face. If it’s anything like the feeling of guilt swirling in the pit of her stomach, it can’t possibly be good. 

He sighs, running his free hand over his face so he can crouch in front of her. “None of this is anyone’s fault. Is it some messed up, weird, magical shit? Yes, absolutely But it’s not anybody’s fault. And there’s got to be a reason I’m here, right?”  
  
“You think you’re here to unmagic the Jolly Roger?” Mary Margaret asks. “How?”   
  
“You know what’s really good at dehydrating things? Alcohol.”   
  
Emma can feel the muscles in her face shift again, another expression that probably isn’t very good, but might be a little curious and Will’s eyebrows jump. “What are you suggesting, exactly? We get the water drunk?”   
  
“Look who’s being ridiculous now.”   
  
“Be more specific then.”   
  
“I was really good at mixing drinks at home, you know,” Will says, and it only takes a moment for Emma to understand. Regina’s quiet _oh damn, that may work_ helps too. “Won awards from Time Out once. They were very complimentary. Ursula broke the frame in her water gun battle.”

“You’re not doing a great job of making me feel better, honestly.”  
  
His eyebrows are almost worse than Killian’s. “What I’m saying is, I can mix things. And while I’m not suggesting we get the water drunk, I am suggesting that battling magic water with anything except some other form of magical liquid seems almost pointless.”   
  
“Huh.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”   
  
“Maybe you deserve to be more than the court jester,” Regina says, sounding almost genuine. “What do you think you could use to combat that?”   
  
“You have potions here, don’t you, Your Majesty? That’s how magic should work.”   
  
Regina levels him with an even stare, but Will doesn’t bat an eyelash and Emma isn’t really that surprised. Because, for the most part, both he and Belle have taken this in stride and, she hopes, they’re maybe happy or at least on the way there and she didn’t even think of attacking the water. “You’ve got a few rather sweeping opinions on the state of magic, don’t you?” Regina asks, and Will makes a contrary noise in the back of his throat. 

“I got an A in high school chemistry one year.”  
  
“And that Time Out award. Whatever that actually is.”   
  
“It’s a magazine. If I hadn’t been fighting for my life against your magical enemies, I totally would have brought it with me. Proved my worth or whatever.”

Regina scoffs, and Emma expects more of an argument. It doesn’t come. And the pin-lady has very clearly given up on getting any of them to follow the rules of an appropriate gown fitting. Emma’s probably going to blow off her appointment. She’ll feel bad about it later, apologize to the pin-lady and her, apparently, very large team of pin-type people, but she’s starting to feel cautiously optimistic and maybe a little hopeful and she’s willing to try anything at this point. 

She’s getting this ship out. 

And she’s getting Killian Jones back on the water. 

As soon as possible. 

“Potions are complicated though,” Mary Margaret points out. “That’s more science than magic.”  
  
Will sighs. “Did you miss my quip about getting an A in high school chemistry?”   
  
“I doubt you’ll let us forget it,” Ruby grins. “Alright, so let’s get this straight. You think you can what? Mix up some concoction--”   
  
“--Oh, good word. Magical, mythical.”   
  
“Gods, shut up.”   
  
“I do like concoction more than potion,” Emma says, and Will may actually try to wink. He’s still crouched in front of her chair. “Regina, do you think that’s possible?”   
  
Regina’s lips twist, ideas and possibilities playing out on her face. “You’re the spark of magic, Emma. That’s always been the case. I think if you find the right way to combat any kind of magic, particularly dark magic, your--well, participation and, let’s say, your feelings on the subject will be able to do just about anything.”

“I did that though. Tried to--I don’t know, feel particularly True Love’y.”  
  
Ruby chuckles, Mary Margaret tugging her lips behind her teeth so she doesn’t join in on the noise. Regina doesn’t look all that surprised. “And, as the jester has mentioned, you were using that to enable the wrong weapon. The bottle is there to hold the water. The water is magical. That’s it.”   
  
“Well, you don’t have to be insulting about it.”

Will winks again. That one is a little more successful, less scrunched face and more encouraging, particularly when he reaches out to squeeze Emma’s knee. “I bet there’s some concoction that, coupled with your very strong, decidedly obvious feelings about pirate captain Killian Jones, will make ships grow. Large. And wooden.”  
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
“What? That’s a genuine belief of mine.”   
  
“I’m going to magic you,” Emma warns, the threat sounding decidedly unthreatening. 

“Yuh huh, sure you are. What about Alice in Wonderland?”  
  
“What about her?”   
  
“Well she drank that thing, got big and had enormous tears. I bet I could find something in Wonderland that would fix a pirate ship.”   
  
“You’re still making misplaced references.”

“I am theorizing. Because I know for a fact that you’re trying to sneak out of this dress--”

“--Gown.”  
  
“Whatever,” Will mutters. “You’re going to ignore this fitting thing, go find the aforementioned pirate captain and do that eye nonsense you do.”   
  
“Eye nonsense.”   
  
“You definitely do an eye thing.”   
  
“You absolutely do,” Ruby confirms. “And you don’t get to complain about it, Scarlet. We’ve all been living with it since they were kids.”   
  
Emma’s jaw cracks when it falls open. “None of you were around us when were kids!”   
  
“Yeah, but you were very bad at sneaking out,” Mary Margaret says. “The birds, Emma. And secret passageways. And balls.”   
  
“Plenty of yearning,” Regina adds, and Emma nearly slides off her chair. She’d kick Will in the chest if she did. That’s not entirely unappealing. “Almost too much, honestly.”   
  
“I don’t yearn,” Emma objects. The words deserve the laughter they get. 

“Sure, you don’t. But he did. Does. Presently. And gave up his ship to find you. So let’s all be honest with ourselves. You’re going to do whatever you can to get it back for him, because that’s been your MO since you were kids. The jester will make some concoction, you’ll help magic it together, defeat the evil water and--”  
  
“--Gods, how can there be more?”   
  
“Then,” Regina repeats, “we go back to Misthaven, preferably with the pirate ship that is only slightly piratical now and we all--”   
  
“--Live happily ever after,” Mary Margaret finishes. Regina glares. 

“That is way more pedestrian than we were trying to make it sound,” Ruby mutters. 

“And how,” Emma asks, “are you trying to make it sound?”  
  
Regina’s lips curl up, half a smile and that same bit of hope that Emma’s been clinging to since they got back to this realm. “No one knows this realm better than Killian does,” she says. “He’s been everywhere and it’s...well, we’ve been thinking about that quasi democracy Belle was talking about.”   
  
“She was talking about the British royal family. And, I hate to remind you Regina, but no one voted for us.”   
  
“If you’re going to cherry-pick what political terms I can and cannot use, this is going to be very difficult for all of us.”   
  
“You’re not making any sense!”   
  
“We want this to be equal,” Mary Margaret says, taking care on every letter like she’s practiced them several times. “Maybe not democratic, per se, but at least a little--what’s another word?”

“Egalitarian,” Will says. He sighs when Emma’s mouth falls open again. “What? I went to college. Did you?”  
  
“I was kind of busy saving a magic kingdom I’d been cursed to forget about.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s fair I suppose.”   
  
Mary Margaret stands up, rustling fabric and heels clacking on the tile because there’s no point to a gown fitting if they’re not wearing appropriate shoes. Or so Emma has been told several times. “What I’m trying to say is that we think we can do it. A counsel, rather than a monarchy. All of us--Will and Belle included, and uh, well…Captain Killian Jones and Her Royal Highness Emma Swan as official envoys to the rest of the realm does have a pretty good ring to it.”   
  
Emma is glad her mouth is already hanging open. It makes it easier to huff out every molecule of oxygen in her lungs. She assumes they’re molecules. 

She never went to high school, either. 

“It’s up to you of course,” Mary Margaret continues. “But, well...we think it might be part of the prophecy too.”  
Emma’s eyebrows jump. It matches up with the inexplicable rhythm of her magic, surging up her arms and curling around her right shoulder blade. It bursts in the back of her brain, an idea and a possibility and--   
  
“The future of magic,” she breathes, Regina humming in only slightly pointed agreement. “That’s...that’s what I told Killian.”   
  
Emma knows she shouldn’t take as much pleasure in the stunned expressions she’s met with, but it’s been that kind of day and she thinks she remembers that spell she used when they were kids. The one that deflects attention. 

They haven’t actually seen much of Arendelle. 

“What?” Regina asks, quiet enough that it’s hardly a word. 

Emma nods. “A prophecy doesn’t just end, right? And it changed. The seeress, all of us, we thought it was talking about Rumplestilskin at first and that was wrong. It was always me and Killian. The light in the dark, the Swan and the Knight. All of it. And well...I know we’re not fighting, technically, anymore, but it might just be--” She clicks her tongue, ignoring whatever pride-type look has landed on Ruby’s face. “--Protecting it. We got Anna back here, got Hans out of Arendelle--”  
  
“--Totally screwed over King Arthur,” Ruby adds, and pride has quickly morphed into something closer to gloating. 

“You think Guinevere and Lancelot are going to get married before David and Mary Margaret do, or, like, what do you think the odds are on that?”

Ruby nearly falls over, arm wrapped around her waist to stay upright while she starts cackling again, and even the pin-lady joins in on that. Emma’s eyes widen, meeting Regina’s because Regina still hasn’t actually said anything about this plan and--

“We didn’t realize the ship was in a bottle,” she mutters. “Getting it out would probably help. If that’s what you want.”  
  
“Is that an option?”   
  
Emma doesn’t really mean for the words to come out quite as bitter as they do, but she is also kind of tired and it took what felt like several years to find pants. The ones she’s wearing are Killian’s. She magiced them to fit. 

“It is now,” Regina says, a promise and just enough _something_ that any doubts Emma’s mind has managed to cling to disappear in something almost resembling smoke and just a bit of her own magic. “From here on out. You’re always going to help people, Emma. And you’re more equipped to do it than any of us. That’s--well, that’s how it’s worked since the start. So we get the captain’s ship, we get the captain and then we start taking bets on how soon a different wedding is going to take place.”

Ruby falls over. Mary Margaret’s eyes bug to an impossibly large size. And Regina looks incredibly smug. 

Emma can feel her cheeks flush, but any words she’s got regarding any sort of possible objection to _that_ get caught in her throat and the wave of magic she’s doing her best to fight against, another round of water-based puns that are wholly out of place. 

“He did take the box back,” Will mutters, working another screech-like sound out of Ruby and a dramatic gasp out of both Mary Margaret and Regina. The second is more surprising. “Also, let’s not forget I am also betrothed.”  
  
“Betrothed, huh?”   
  
“I’m hanging out with royals now, something fancy’s got to stick.”   
  
“Yeah, I bet that’s it.”

“How long has there been a box?” Mary Margaret hisses, moving closer to Ruby so she can claw at her arm and swat at her shoulder. 

Will shrugs. “Long time, I guess. Emma totally freaked when she saw it.”

There are more noises – hands over mouths, and vaguely accusatory stares, even more out of place water-based puns because they’d been _cursed_ and Killian had been dead and--"Ah, fuck it,” Emma mumbles, twisting her wrist and focusing on the feeling tugging lightly in the very middle of her. 

She lands with a soft thump, leather shoes on a slightly shaky ground that isn’t actually a ground. It’s a dock, wooden planks under her heels and she should have figured. She takes a deep breath, trying to figure out where that sound is coming from and what that sound, actually is, and her smile is a little ridiculous. 

It feels very wide. 

And the sound is swords. 

Emma spins on the spot, unsurprised by what she sees – Killian with his jacket off and hair matted to his forehead, a soft laugh and sure-footed moves. He keeps twisting the blade in his hand, a practiced challenge in every shift because that’s exactly what this is. Practice. 

With Henry. 

And the swords. 

“Stop watching my hand,” Killian says, and Emma knows it’s not the first time he’s done that. “It’s not about that. It’s about--”  
  
“--The sword, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard,” Henry groans. He dodges another move, jerking his arm up and the clang of metal on metal makes Emma flinch. That’s lame. She pulls her hands up to to mask her potential gasp, but she didn’t take her magic into account. 

Killian snaps his head around, brows pulled low until his eyes land on her and whatever happens to his entire face makes Emma’s magic do something else entirely. Something romantic. Something possibly drifting towards yearning. 

And adventures. 

And a ship. 

She’s going to magic the fuck out of Will Scarlet’s chemical concoction. 

Or, whatever. 

“You might want to watch your back,” Emma says, crossing her arms and nodding in Henry’s direction. Killian’s eyes widen, chest shifting when his breath hitches and he just barely turns in time, bending his knees to block Henry’s jab. 

He laughs when Henry groans again, clearly annoyed his maneuver didn’t work. “What were you trying to do?” Killian asks, another flick of his wrist and quick lunge that’s barely more than a blur and Henry’s sword clatters when it lands on the dock. “Take me out at the kneecaps?”  
  
“You weren’t paying attention,” Henry grumbles. “That was rule number one through, like, forty-seven or--”   
  
Emma can’t help the laugh that flies out of her, scrunching her nose when Killian turns on her as if he’s been explicitly betrayed “How many rules are we talking?” she asks, and Henry mumbles a word much larger than forty-seven.

Her magic jumps again. 

“It’s not forty-seven,” Killian promises, although Emma gets the impression it may be more than that and she does her best to make her hum sound as sarcastic as possible. “Did you see that parry, though?” He leans forward, tapping the side of the blade and Henry’s arm. “I think he’s starting to get the hang of it.”

She hums again – less sarcastic, more endeared, entirely magical. “Was this your idea, then? And should we be using real swords?”

“It’s almost offensive how dull these blades are. And no, it wasn’t my idea. What did you say we should call it, lad?”  
  
Henry grits his teeth, a bit of color on his cheeks. “Bonding. I’ve never...well, we didn’t have a lot of swords in Neverland and Killian’s really good.”   
  
“See, Swan,” Killian grins, thumb tapping out a rhythm against the hilt when he rests the sword on his shoulder. He knows he’s cheating. Emma pushes on her magic, and it’s a little dirty, a little unfair, really, with a kid there who wants to _bond_ over sword fighting, but Emma’s mind is still racing just a bit and--”Incidentally, what are you doing here, love?”   
  
“I’m uh…here to--” Emma wavers, Killian’s smile getting stronger and more smirk-like the more she stumbles over words. Henry might nod. That might help. “I’m here to ask you out because it’s stupid we haven’t done that yet.”

The sword slides off his shoulder. 

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you out?”  
  
“You are incredibly old fashioned, pirate.”   
  
Killian nods, taking three, measured steps before he’s in Emma’s space and it really is ridiculous how attracted she is to him. Particularly when holding a sword. And wearing that shirt. Without the jacket. She really does like the jacket, though. 

“Are these my pants?” he asks lightly, twisting his hook around inexplicable belt loops. “They look awfully familiar.”

“That’s not an answer.”  
  
“True, true. It’s a crime we haven’t gone into the city yet.”

“Is that a plan I hear?”  
  
“Aye, it could be. You know how I feel about plans and their ability to come together, your highness.”   
  
Emma groans. So does Henry. The second one is louder. Emma is still kind of charmed by the whole thing. “I can play decoy,” he volunteers, and that part _is_ a little surprising. “You know...if you want me to.”   
  
“And all it’s going to take is more sword lessons, right?” Killian asks knowingly. 

“You’re really good, Killian.”

Emma laughs again, burrowing closer to Killian’s chest and he kisses her hair before he glances back at Henry. “Right, right,” he mutters. “Well, you’ve successfully negotiated your first deal, my boy. It was very impressive and you got plenty out of it.”  
  
“You get to date Emma.”   
  
She stops laughing. And not for any other reason except the way Killian tenses slightly, another hitch to his breath that makes her wonder and worry and that lasts, approximately, three seconds. He smiles at her. 

“Aye, I do. Alright, Henry, we’ve an accord.”  
  
He tosses the sword back to his feet, holding his hand out and Henry nearly trips over himself in his effort to take it. It’s also pretty goddamn charming. “I’ll make sure they spend forever on my clothes,” Henry yells, sprinting away from the docks in a blur of belief and childhood determination.

And Emma doesn’t move immediately, lets her head stay exactly where it is so she can count the beats of Killian’s heart under her ear like some goddamn creep. Who can’t remember if she’s ever been on a date before. 

She doesn’t think so. At least, not really.

“I think I remember that spell,” she says, tilting her head up to find him grinning at her already. Or still. The specifics of it probably aren’t important. 

Killian kisses her temple. “Good. What do you want to do first, Swan?”

They go into the city below the Arendelle castle, which does not appear to have a name. 

“Do you think that’s a rule?” Emma asks, the fluttering at the back of her brain proof positive that the spell did, in fact, work. People keep glancing at them and looking away, focusing on what she can only assume are coronation-related tasks because, while the city doesn’t appear to have a name, it does have a general hum to it and a rhythm that probably lends itself to using the word _coronation_ in some sort of kingdom-wide cheer. 

Like a Yankee game or something. 

Emma wonders what would happen if she brought up the Yankees in Arendelle. 

It’d probably make Killian laugh. 

“A rule about what?” he asks, and Emma’s nearly forgotten she even asked a question. They’re weaving their way through the central market because the city appears to have more than one market depending on which neighborhood it is and maybe she shouldn’t bring up the Yankees at all. She should bring up grid systems and their efficiency in city planning. 

“Swan,” Killian mutters, nudging her lightly in the side. It’s not easy, their fingers twisted together and magic in the air around them and it had taken her nearly five minutes to cast the goddamn spell because he kept kissing along her jawline. 

Dating is kind of fun. 

“The town in Misthaven doesn’t have a name. This doesn’t. I know two isn’t much more than coincidence, but I guess--”   
  
Emma shrugs, glancing up and he’s smiling at her like this is the most important conversation either one of them have ever had. Whatever her magic does has nothing to do with the crowd around them. 

He totally knows that too. 

“Maybe it’s just a sign of royal laziness,” Killian suggests, the expression turning from something dangerously close to adoring into something far closer to teasing. “You know...you build your giant castle, you dig a moat, get some rather expensive clothing and then you can’t be bothered to name the city because you’re so exhausted.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“It makes perfect sense to me.”   
  
“Sure it does.”   
  
“Is that doubt I hear, love?” He does something absurd with his eyebrows, not quite magic, but at least a move that defies some type of gravity. 

She rolls her eyes, turning on him quickly and she’s going to do dangerous things to her own ego if she keeps claiming victories in such normal moments. As it is, Emma has started hoarding them all, a return to possibility and incredibly good flirting, hands flat on Killian’s chest and his fingers dancing along the hem of a shirt that is, in fact, hers. 

“No doubt,” Emma promises, letting her fingers drift towards the charms around his neck. She flutters her fingers over the rather absurd amount of skin his shirt shows off, chewing on her lower lip because she’s really starting to get greedy with her victories and she knows this will work. 

It does. 

Killian lets out a huff of air, head falling forward just enough that it ghosts over the side of her cheek. “Some kind of royal punishment,” he mutters, and Emma can’t help whatever sound she makes. It’s a giggle. She just doesn’t want to admit it. 

“And what, Lieutenant, would you think your crime is?”  
  
“Captain, Swan, we’ve been over this several thousand times.”   
  
“Thousand?”   
  
“At least.”   
  
Emma hums, fingertips dragging across his collarbone and she genuinely does not mean for her magic to surge into the touch, but she’s still got a few thoughts regarding swords and magic kids and pirate ships in bottles. She needs to tell him about the plan. Or offer. Or whatever the term for it is. 

And she would have. Honestly. The words are there, on the tip of her tongue and the magic in her fingers, but--

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m--” The man gasps as soon as he realizes who, exactly, he’s just bumped into and it’s probably their fault. The magic distracts. It doesn’t make them invisible. And they are dangerously close to yanking on each other’s clothing in the middle of the central marketplace.

Without a name. 

Or, possibly clothes. Eventually. 

“Your Highness,” the man continues, eyes darting anywhere except Emma’s face. She can feel Killian laughing against her, tugged back against a chest that is shaking almost too much. “I’m sorry to bother and--Captain, sir. It’s uh...thank you.”  
Killian stops laughing. “What?”   
  
“Thank you?”   
  
“No, no, I heard you, I just--I’m not sure I entirely understand.”

The man flushes, digging the toe of his boot into the ground and Emma does her best to temper her impatience and her magic. She’s not sure either one of them work. And it’s been years since she’s heard _that_ tone of voice, a question in the words and anticipation in the syllables, the hope of _enough_ and could-be.

It’s the best victory she’s gotten in...ever. 

“Well, we’ve heard the rumors, sir,” the man stammers. “You and--the princess. Finding our Anna and bringing her home. Bringing Queen Elsa home for that matter. And helping rid us of Hans. We--the people are very thankful for it. For both of you. For--” He ducks his eyes, tongue flashing between his lips and his voice is barely a whisper when he finishes. “--defeating the Darkness. It’s all they can talk about in the taverns.”  
  
Killian blinks. And his fingers curl tight around Emma’s as soon as she reaches for him. “That so?” she asks, the man nodding enthusiastically. 

“Oh yes, ma’am. Right heroic, that was.”

She doesn’t giggle, so that’s something, but she does laugh and it’s nothing except joy. Pure and unadulterated, some kind of destiny-type finish with prophecy and Killian’s thumb brushing over the back of her wrist. The color in the man’s cheeks gets even brighter, a red that rivals several mermaid’s hair, and he flinches when Emma reaches towards him.

“If you had to suggest the best tavern for someone celebrating something right heroic, is there one in particular?”  
  
HIs eyes widen. His mouth hangs open. And Killian’s head drops again -- so he can press a kiss to the side of Emma’s neck and she has to bite her tongue to stop herself from doing something distinctly un-royal. 

She’s done enough of that already. 

“Oh, yes, of course your highness,” the man says quickly, waving an arm towards an alley and a sign Emma can just barely make out. “Good ale.”  
  
“Well, what more could you ask for?” He bows, which is only slightly absurd, but Emma supposes, much like gowns and cities without names, it’s something she should probably get used to again. Maybe after the ale. 

And the man is gone before she can thank him, or ask his name, a blur of feet and pants that weren't magiced to fit correctly. Killian’s fingers squeeze hers. “I couldn’t tell you the last time I’ve had ale,” he mutters. 

“Doesn’t really fit the pirate stereotype, does it?”  
  
“Pray tell, your highness, what pirate stereotype is that?”   
  
“Please,” Emma groans, trying to pull her hand back to her side. He doesn’t let go. She didn’t really expect him to. “Drink up me hearties, yo ho. All that. And a bottle of rum.”   
  
“Really bad eggs.”   
  
“Exactly. See, don’t act like you’re not understanding my references.”   
  
“I think that’s you trying to tell me that I’m incredibly intelligent,” Killian grins, tugging her towards the alley on the other side of the marketplace and the sign does, actually, have words on it. The pub is named The Crooked Prince. 

“Not exactly exactly inspiring a lot of confidence in the monarchy is it?” Emma asks. “You think that’s some kind of sign?”  
  
“It is a sign.”   
  
“Oh my God.”   
  
He chuckles, far too many teeth in his smile. It’s not quite predatory though, more...something positive. About clothes. And his pants. That she’s wearing. Gods, she really cannot stop thinking about the sword thing. “You are on a compliment roll, love. First you tell me I’m smart and now you’re acknowledging my jokes.”   
  
“I have said not any of those words.”   
  
“Ah, that’s not how I’ve been hearing it at all,” Killian objects, still grinning. They’re going to get run over if they don’t move away from the tavern door. Emma doesn’t lift her foot. “And you heard the man, Swan. You’re a bloody hero.”   
  
“So are you.” She’s fully prepared for him to open his mouth, the way his brows pull low and his forehead creases slightly. So Emma reacts. It’s proactive. And he tries to nip at her finger when she presses it against her lips. “You are ruining this,” she grumbles. 

Killian hums, hook around her wrist to tug her hand back down. “I have never said the words yo ho in my entire life. That is an incorrect stereotype.”

She’s, admittedly, less prepared for that. 

Emma’s body sags, head colliding with his chest and Killian doesn’t flinch. She’s sure he’s smiling too, insufferable and attractive and several other contradictory adjectives that make perfect sense. Hero and pirate, princess and...probably scallywag or something. She’ll have to look up other piratical terms. “You did just say it though. If you...you know, you want to get technical about it.”  
  
“I do not want to get technical about it.”   
  
“You were definitely drinking rum in that one tavern in Misthaven.”   
  
He leans back, a little dumbfounded, like he’s actually got the gall to be surprised she remembered that. Emma rolls her eyes again. “That’s true,” Killian agrees. “But the options were rather limited then. And I can’t imagine that place has the same reputation as the vaunted Crooked Prince.”   
  
“Seriously, you think you’re hysterical.”   
  
“No, Swan, I know I’m hysterical, there’s a major difference.”

“You must have had drinks at Scarlet’s.”  
  
“Why are you bringing up Scarlet on our date?” Emma refuses to acknowledge whatever her heart does at that. Jumps and explodes, possibly, a burst of magic that is going to fuck with the magic she’s already done and Killian's eyes widen with the clear force of his suspicion. “Swan,” he says softly, an even more obvious prodding and she’s starting to think he may already know about the plan. 

The sword fight makes a little more sense that way. 

“Do you have a drink of choice?” Emma asks, a rather pitiful attempt to redirect the conversation. Killian’s eyebrows are the worst. “Like...you know, cursed you who couldn’t drink ale? Do they make ale in New York?”  
  
“I think that’s just craft beer, honestly. Hops or whatever.”   
  
“What are hops, exactly?”   
  
“I’ve got no bloody idea,” Killian laughs. The door opens behind them, another body barely avoiding them as he stumbles back towards the rest of the city. Emma gasps as soon as Killian pushes her forward, hips far too close to each other far too quickly and one of them probably freezes when they realize she’s flush against a very solid wall. 

She swallows. “So, uh...no to the hops then?”  
  
“Scarlet turned thirty a few weeks before you got there, you know. It was very dramatic, lots of hand-wringing and he was nervous about proposing and he wanted to go out. Belle planned the whole thing, looked up reviews of places in the Village--”   
  
“--He owned a bar!”   
  
“You can’t drink your own stock, that’s bad for business, Swan.” Emma scoffs, rolling her shoulders back, but that only lands her even closer to wall and her back arches on instinct. Killian’s jaw clenches. “So, uh--” he bites out, and Emma cannot laugh. She doesn’t. Kind of. “Well, we went out and have you ever had sambuca?”   
  
“I don’t even know what that is.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Killian mutters. “Belle claimed this place had good reviews and lots of choices, she drank something that was blue, I think, some variation, and it had just opened. There was a sale or a deal--”  
  
“--A sale on alcohol?”   
  
“Swan, you can’t keep interrupting.” She shrugs, which only serves to make more of her touch more of him and if she doesn’t get some alcohol in her, in the middle of the goddamn afternoon, as soon as possible, she might actually explode. “Anyway,” Killian says, “we went, there was quite a bit of sambuca, I’ve never seen Scarlet that drunk and--”   
  
“--That’s what made it your favorite, isn’t it?” Emma cries, waving a dismissive hand because she’s interrupted again. She’s not sure how her arm ends up draped over Killian’s shoulder. “And you, somehow, what...managed to stay perfectly sober the entire night?”   
  
“I’m very good at holding my liquor.”   
  
“Yuh huh.”   
  
“Honestly.”   
  
“Drink up me hearties, yo ho?”

Killian makes a noise in the back of his throat, a mumbled _c’mon_ that’s a little raspy and probably not meant to be attractive, but then they’re moving and The Crooked Prince smells like hops. Or so Emma assumes. 

She has no idea what hops are. 

And Killian Jones cannot hold his ale. 

She’s not sure how long they stay in there, tucked into a slightly dark corner that’s all the more impressive since it is, in fact, the middle of the afternoon, but Emma can’t bother to keep track of a menial thing like time when she’s fairly positive Killian is exuding heat next to her. 

His coat shifts every time he moves, crowding into her space and he can’t seem to stop touching her. The back of his knuckles drag over her arm, his hook pressing lightly into the side of her hip when he starts to wobble just a bit. His forehead rests on hers, warm breath on her nose and the side of his jaw becuase, eventually, it appears his neck is not all that interested in being a functioning part of his body. 

It is intoxicating. More so than the ale. Which is, in fact, pretty disgusting.

The room has started spinning a little. 

“Lightweight, lightweight, lightweight,” Emma chants, drawing a shaky and drunken laugh out of him. He bites lightly at the side of her neck, making her yelp and they’re starting to play a very dangerous game. 

“That is another out of place phrase in this realm, my love.”  
  
Emma’s entire body--well, she’s not sure what it does. She is not a doctor. Her education is stunted at best, a muddle of memories and moments and moments that were incorrect memories, but _that_ makes everything settle just a bit. 

It’s a subtle change and not even much of a change, if she’s being honest. It’s always been true, if never explicitly voiced, and she can’t hold him accountable for much of anything he says because he’s absolutely sloshed. Her mind does not give one single fuck. It give negative fucks. It gives victory and want and greedy, greedy, _greedy_ and--   
  
She yelps when his hook finds its way underneath her shirt, cool metal against suddenly flaming-hot skin and Killian grins when she glares. “Gods, but you’re a menace,” Emma groans. He hums. Into her shoulder. 

His neck shouldn’t even count as part of his body anymore. 

“You were talking a big game before,” Emma says. “You can barely stand up now.”  
  
“That is a bald lie.”   
  
“Bald face.”   
  
“Hmmm?”   
  
“Bald face,” she repeats, not sure if there’s actually a name for the feeling working its way through her. It warms her from the inside out, like doing shots of tequila and she was loathe to realize there was not, in fact, tequila available at The Crooked Prince. “The phrase you are looking for, o ye so sure he’s the smartest man in every room, is bald face lie.”

Killian makes another noise, nuzzling closer to her until Emma doesn't have a choice except to move her arm around his middle. “You’re a genius, love.”  
  
“And you are drunk.”   
  
“No, no, no, that’s not true at all.” He mumbles a few more words, pulling his head slowly like he’s looking for something in particular. “Are you?”   
  
“Nah.”   
  
“Nah?”   
  
“Nah.”   
  
Killian nods, lower lip stuck out far enough that there’s not much of an option except to catch it with her mouth. He groans, twisting further around her like he’ll be able to cover her or something equally romantic and slightly absurd because Emma’s magic is on overdrive. She’s genuinely surprised she hasn’t done damage to the windows in this tavern. 

“Day drunk,” Killian mutters. “That’s the right phrase. See, smart.”  
  
Emma laughs, another sound that’s far too much like a giggle and one of them probably moves first. Towards the door. And fresh air. It’s almost responsible. “You are just saying words now,” she accuses, and none of her steps are particularly even. She nearly falls over more than once, the rocks on the ground looking bigger and far more threatening than they had a few hours earlier, and Killian moves like he’s actually going to try and carry her. “If you lift me up, I will punch you right in the face,” she warns, a threat that loses all of its venom when she practically shouts the words. 

And immediately starts laughing again. 

“That is gallant, Swan. You’re going to break something.”  
  
“You’re going to break something,” she challenges, only to be met by another serious nod and whatever his mouth does Twitches. Taunts her. Makes her wonder if she can teleport them back to that feather bed when her head feels like it’s swimming. 

“And I wasn’t just saying the words. That’s a phrase. Have you never heard that? Something about brunch. Belle was always going on about brunch. Did you not have brunch in Storybrooke?”  
  
“I think Granny would have shot you with a crossbow if you even suggested that.”   
  
He snickers, nosing behind her ear. They’ve made it back to the marketplace much quicker than Emma expected, hustle and bustle and other rhyming words that, in her current state of mind, sound particularly hysterical. 

“And Storybrooke was--” Emma clicks her tongue, words suddenly very difficult. It’s because he’s kissing her neck. They’re going to get arrested. She can’t remember how long this spell used to last. It probably wasn’t tested against the force of Arendelle ale. “It was different than the Land Without Magic. Not quite as much...culture? We knew we had magic. There were potions and everyone knew what we were capable of. Mary Margaret brought birds into her classroom and--”  
  
“--No brunch?”   
  
Emma shakes her head. “No brunch.”   
  
“That’s unfortunate. There are usually mimosas involved.”   
  
“Your experience with that realm’s alcohol is much larger than mine. Granny had one bottle of tequila that David enchanted to never run out.”   
  
“And you called me a pirate!”   
  
“That’s thrifty, and cursed. There’s a difference.”   
  
Killian nods, eyes flitting towards a stand a few feet away and it only takes one gust of particularly strong wind for her to realize what he’s looking at. She can smell it. Toffee. “You know,” he says slowly, “as far as I’m aware brunch always ends with some kind indulgent sweet.”

“Why are there so many rules about brunch?”  
  
“Do you not want toffee?”   
  
Emma scowls, but they both know she definitely wants toffee and there’s something oddly cyclical about this. It may be that she feels like she’s spinning. Killian’s lips quirk when she grips the front of his jacket. “I don’t have any money. Do you? Did we pay for those drinks?”   
  
“What kind of date do you think this is?”   
  
“You are a pirate.”

He clicks his tongue, a flash in his gaze that leaves Emma trying to dig her heels into the ground. To prove there is a ground. And she’s not floating. One of her knuckles crack when she holds his jacket tighter. “I have no idea what kind of coins they use in this kingdom,” Killian mutters. “So I dropped the handful of gold I had on the counter as we left. Whoever was there could probably buy the block now.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s the technical term.”   
  
“I have no money.”   
  
“What are you suggesting--” She feels her mouth form a perfect ‘o’ when she realizes, Killian’s brows jumping into his hair and the flutter in her veins isn’t magic or anxiety, so much as it’s excitement and possibly misplaced flirting in the form of petty theft. “Are you serious?”   
  
“Are you?”   
  
“You’re drunk!”   
  
“So are you,” Killian points out. “And, honestly, are these my pants?”   
  
Emma scoffs -- a pitiful attempt to make sure he doesn’t notice her magic, but the deja vu is too strong and her magic is some kind of unstoppable force and--”Something about deft fingers and soft steps, right?”   
  
He grins, ducking his head to catch her lips and the tongue thing should not inspire confidence, but Emma feels as if her spine is growing. She rolls her shoulders, pressing her lips together tightly, the only way she doesn’t start waxing poetic about that one piece of hair falling across his forehead. 

“Quick,” he adds. “The magic’ll help, but I don’t want to tempt fate.”  
  
“This was your idea! And how did we decide I was the one who was going to do the actual stealing? That seems unfair.”   
  
“Quiet may help too.”   
  
“You think they have bail in Arendelle?”   
  
“I don’t have any gold left, so you’ll have to do this quickly.” Emma gapes, the tip of Killian’s tongue pressing into the side of his cheek. “But I would gladly break you out of several brigs if the situation called for it, love.”   
  
“Promises, promises,” Emma grumbles, but that’s a little disingenuous and neither one of them really needs to prove anything to the other anymore. Except how much better she is at stealing than he is. She’s weirdly competitive when she’s drunk. “Alright, what do I win if I do this?”

“Toffee, was that not obvious?”  
  
He’s still grinning when she snaps her head around, eyes distracting and staring straight at her, less deja vu becuase it’s never really changed. And Emma will never say she was explicitly confident when she walked towards the stand, but she was, at least a little determined and the man doesn’t notice her at first. 

She lets her fingers drag across the edge of the counter, chewing on her lip and trying not to breathe too loudly. There’s a stack of sweets on the corner, an easy mark that she should be more than capable of picking off. She’s good at this. Could shoot a target at twenty paces in Storybrooke, cast spells with ease in Misthaven and--well, she’s the goddamn Savior. 

Stealing toffee should be easy. 

And it is. For a moment. 

Until Emma’s ankle rolls underneath her, destroyed by the same rocks Killian was ready to defend against. Her hand slams onto the counter, a loud thud that leaves her grunting in pain, elbow colliding with the wood and the man snaps his head towards her, eyes wide with accusation because she’s clearly day drunk and very clearly trying to steal toffee. 

“Ah, God damn--” 

She doesn’t finish, an arm around her waist and voice in her ear and--”Run,” Killian says, laughter coloring the words. 

They do. His fingers find hers almost immediately, still impossibly warm, tugging her towards a different alley and there are too many alleys in this city. She’ll tell Elsa that eventually, once they’re done hiding them. 

Emma can hear people shouting -- calls for _the guard_ and _they went that way_ and it’s not funny. It’s not. But Killian’s out of breath, an arm above her head with her back pressed to a different wall, the ends of his coat fluttering around his ankles and well...something about adrenaline probably. And chemistry. 

She pushes up on her toes, reveling in the noise it elicits, somewhere between a gasp and a groan and there’s too much momentum behind her movement. Emma’s nose squishes against Killian’s cheek, the jut of her chin colliding with his and maybe she’s the one groaning because the whole world feels like it flips when his hips cant up. 

Emma works an arm under his jacket, letting her mouth open as son as his tongue brushes against her lips. She knows it should hurt more when her head falls back against the wall, but she’s still blissfully drunk and they’ve always been very good at this. 

Killian’s lips fall back to her neck, scruff scratching at her skin and--”You can’t leave marks there,” Emma mumbles, fingers finding their way to his back. That makes both of them groan. Loudly. 

“Is your foot ok?”  
  
“I’m fine,” she promises, nodding for good measure because he does look genuinely worried, pulling back to meet her gaze with clearer-than-earlier eyes. “Really. Although I may take you up on that offer to get carried back to bed.”   
  
“Right to bed, huh?”   
  
“You’re the one who keeps trying to bite my neck.”   
  
“This is making out, Swan. That’s how dates work. And I’m not aware of any vampires in this realm either.”   
  
“If there are vampires in this realm, I’m out.”   
  
He chuckles, another quick kiss that’s almost better than the searing ones. “Aye, that’s fair. Maybe we’ll work on the high-points of stealing after we talk about the ambassador-ship we’ve been offered, huh?”   
  
“I knew it! I knew you knew! Is that why you were sword fighting with Henry?”   
  
“You think I was sword fighting with an actual child to alleviate my anger?”   
  
“Well, when you put it that way…”   
  
“That’s not what I was doing. David showed up before Henry did. Told me what they were thinking about and how Ruby was planning her own intervention while you were avoiding the gown fittings and--” He shrugs. “It’s something to think about, I suppose.”   
  
Emma hums, bumping her head again. “Yeah, it could be. But, uh...well, I may have been running from the gown fittings and the questions and the plans and--” She twists her lips at the look on his face, because--”Oh, you totally knew that, didn’t you?”   
  
“As soon as you landed on the dock.”   
  
“That’s stupid.”   
  
“That’s romantic,” Killian corrects. “And I was never opposed to the date, love. Even cursed.”   
  
The honesty in his words makes Emma’s eyes flutter shut, an irregular beat to her pulse. She flips her hand up -- the one not still under his shirt. And Killian’s laugh will probably give up their hiding spot, ringing out around them until Emma’s certain she’ll hear it on loop for the rest of the day. That’d be nice. 

The toffee in her palm is starting to melt.   
  
“Pirate,” he mutters, and she grins.   
  
“So, uh...the making out, then? Is that the end of the date or--”   
  
“--An interlude.”   
  
“Right, right,” Emma nods, taking a bite if only because she knows it’ll make Killian’s eyes widen. “These are totally your pants.”

She has to magic some of the toffee off her fingers later, far too busy kissing and laughing and Ruby barely bats an eyelash when Emma and Killian appear in the hall outside their room that night. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she smiles. “And I’m only here to tell you that you’ve got to get your dress finished tomorrow, Em.”

She’s gone as soon as the words are out of her mouth, which is probably for the best because the door is already open, Killian making quick work of the laces of Emma’s pants or his pants and the specifics aren’t important when they’re on the floor. 

“That’s probably how the date’s supposed to end, right?” Emma asks, Killian half an inch above her with a distinct lack of pants as well and--

“Exactly,” he says, more honestly and another word that sounds like a promise and neither one of them wakes up once during the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a very long chapter. Seriously, if you're reading this, thanks for being lovely. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	25. Chapter 25

She wakes with a start, the first few beams of sunlight drifting in through gauzy curtains. Emma blinks, trying to brush away bits of a dream she’s already starting to forget and it wasn’t a nightmare. It was softer, calmer, almost as if her subconscious was allowing her to actually rest while she was resting. 

It’s a nice change of pace. 

The empty bed she finds herself in, however, is not. 

Emma lets her head fall to the side, hand reaching out across rumpled sheets that are frustratingly cool. The dream’s getting further away, little pinpricks of moments that feel like smoke or something equally difficult to contain, but that also feels a little melodramatic and that’s not the emotion she’s looking for that morning. 

Coronation morning. And afternoon, for that matter. Coronation...day. 

There’s a ceremony and more pomp and circumstance than any of them are remotely prepared for, nearly a week after the toffee incident, rules and regulations and a ball because these sort of things always end with a ball. Emma’s almost looking forward to that part, actually. 

Her dress is ridiculous and she can’t really breathe, but she had, finally, agreed to a few hours of pinning and measuring between stealing toffee and stealing kisses and trying to, secretly, restore a pirate ship to its correct size. 

She’s not entirely sure why she’s been so intent on that last part. Will thinks she’s being stupid and, strictly speaking, Emma knows she should tell Killian. 

But she also knows he’s resigned himself to the Jolly’s miniature fate, not a word about it since Neverland and barely any time to discuss the envoy, ambassador-ship and, well--Emma is stubborn. 

She’s still trying to contend with this whole idea of hope. 

The thought of disappointing him makes her whole soul ache. Which is also, a little melodramatic, honestly. 

She licks her lips, letting her eyes roam the room and it only takes her a moment to realize where he’s gone. He hasn’t really gone anywhere. 

Killian shifts as soon as she does -- although whether that’s from the creak of the mattress or the jump of Emma’s magic is anyone’s guess -- a chair pulled towards the window and feet propped up on the sill. She can’t imagine how long he’s been there, but he hasn’t put a shirt on, enough skin to be distracting and Emma can see his lips quirk when she keeps staring. 

She brings the blanket with her when she moves. 

“It’s early, love,” Killian murmurs, head falling back when Emma’s fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“That’s my line.”  
  
“You don’t have to be awake.”  
  
“And you shouldn’t be,” Emma argues. She lets her nails drag across his skin, appreciating both the sound it makes and the goosebumps it creates, his eyes flashing her direction from under impossibly long eyelashes. “What are you looking at, exactly?”  
  
“The horizon.”  
  
“Is it doing something?”  
  
Killian chuckles, smile turning more obvious. “It’s calming.”  
  
“And do you need to be particularly calmed?”  
  
She doesn’t mean the question to sound as pointed as it does, hating the way the words fly out of her. They seem to land with a thump, a weight on the floor that barely misses her feet and it is definitely far too early for all of these metaphors. 

“That was shitty,” she mumbles, drawing another sound out of him. It’s almost a laugh. Maybe a slightly comedic exhale. He turns his head though, lips ghosting over her forearm and now she’s the one with goosebumps. 

“Not shitty, Swan. Early.”  
  
“We’re going in circles.”  
  
Killian hums, the sound working its way into Emma’s skin and settling into her bloodstream, more biological activities she doesn’t understand. He swings his feet down, letting his legs part so he can pull her between them, knees bumping against her thighs and the blanket she’s still inexplicably holding. 

She’s having a hard time thinking while he’s shirtless. 

And-- she’s loathe to realize she’s only _just_ realized -- braceless. There’s no leather circling his arm, nothing wrapped around the end of his wrist. It’s, simply, skin and him, a warmth that’s better than the blanket.

“What time is it?” Emma whispers. She can’t entirely help it. 

Her fingers leave Killian’s hair. 

They fall to his shoulders, dragging across skin, tracing towards slightly bent elbows and neither one of them seems to be breathing, a tension that isn’t that. It’s...softer. Easier. Calming.

Killian’s eyes shut as soon as she touches the blunted end of his arm, over scar tissue and knotted skin. He moves with her, letting her pull and tug, suggestions without words, and whatever air he’d been holding flies out of him when Emma rests his arm against her waist. 

“Just after dawn.”  
  
“Early.”  
  
His head drops, resting against her stomach. “You can go back to sleep, love. Should, probably.”  
  
“Wow, tough crowd, huh?”  
  
“It’s going to be a long day.”  
  
“And yet here we are.” Killian inhales, nosing at Emma’s side and she can’t get much closer to him, but she might take a step forward anyway and his arm might tighten slightly, so maybe melodrama is the theme for a few minutes after dawn. “You know we haven’t officially decided.”  
  
“Decided what?”  
  
“Aw, c’mon,” she groans. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Please.”

Killian’s smile stretches across his face, measured and a little tired and she knows it’s the _please_ that gets his head to snap up. Because it is impossibly early, but they also haven’t talked about it and the rest of the Misthaven royal _whatever_ is starting to get impatient. 

And they do have to go home eventually. 

That’s also a strange word. A nice word. A hopeful word. 

Emma needs coffee. 

There is no coffee in Arendelle. 

“David asked me about it yesterday,” Killian says. “Wanted to remind me that it was our choice and something about no hard feelings, which I thought was a little ridiculous all things considered, but--” He shrugs, chin digging into the jut of Emma’s hip when he tilts his head up again. “--What have you been doing, Swan?”  
  
She’s not sure which reaction is more ridiculous -- the way her eyes feel like they’re about to fall out of her head or the magic that surges through every inch of her, leaving lights at the tips of her fingers and the ends of her hair. 

And it doesn’t really matter because both things make Emma’s knees go weak, the blanket falling to her ankles. 

“Are you kidding me?”  
  
Killian shrugs again, smile turning knowing and at some point Emma is going to document all the different looks he’s capable of making. At her. Or because of her. Whatever. “You’re woefully bad at deception,” he laughs, fingers dancing up her side and she’s not wearing pants. “Well, that’s distracting.”  
  
“Shouldn’t have left bed then.”  
  
“Aye, I’m starting to see that.”

Emma huffs, because she’s always charmed by this, but also because she really did think she was better at keeping secrets. “It’s not a bad thing,” she reasons, gritting her teeth when that sounds like an admission of guilt. Which she isn’t something she’s feeling. Yet. Maybe if they don’t figure it out soon, though. 

“I’m not suggesting it was. Just curious.”  
  
“So your mind-reading powers don’t extend that far, huh?”

He smirks, a flash in his gaze, teeth nipping at the bit of skin just below the hem of her shirt. His shirt. _Whatever_ , honestly. “That’s still not an answer.”  
  
“It’s...Gods, saying it’s a secret is so lame.”  
  
“That’s true.”  
  
“Babe!”  
  
“It is,” Killian mutters, pressing the words into her waist. He noses at her side, smile obvious when his fingers tap at the small of her back. “Bend your knees, love.”  
  
“You’re very frustrating at dawn.”  
  
“It’s after dawn, Swan.”  
  
She grumbles, a few curses that aren’t appropriate for this realm or a princess with a gown to wear later, but Emma’s knees bend anyway, an arm around her waist and a kiss pressed to her shoulder almost immediately. “Ok, it’s not--” Emma continues. “It’s not a bad secret. It’s just...do you want to do this?”  
  
“The envoy, ambassador-thing?”  
  
“There’s definitely a better name than that.”  
  
“That is a mouthful, isn’t it?” Emma nods, slinging her arm around his shoulders so she can get her fingers back in his hair and they will probably be expected to act less...modern during the coronation. They’re not good at that. Or maintaining the proper boundaries of personal space. She’s going to blame the curses. 

And his face. 

Emma has a very a large crush on her pirate boyfriend. 

“Circles,” Emma mumbles. “We don’t have to do it. It’s--well, I know they came up with the plan without talking to us, which is, a dick move really, but Regina was pretty adamant that we could say no and--”  
  
“--Is that what you think?” Killian interrupts, and it’s not quite _sharp_ but calm seems to be a very quickly forgotten memory. “That I don’t want to?”  
  
“I’m confused.”  
  
“That may be the lack of sleep.”

“Oh my God.” Killian makes a face, eyebrows twisting and smirk doing something smirk-like and Emma ducks her head before she really thinks about anything except that crush she’s definitely been nursing for the better part of the last twenty years. “Why the horizon, babe?” she presses, keeping her lips pressed against his jaw. 

“It really is calming.”  
  
“So are several other things. Staying in bed. Sleeping. Not sleeping. Rum.”  
  
“It’s a little early for rum, Swan.”

“So do the other things. Or talk to me. Especially the last one. Do you want to do it? Because it’s--well, it’s up to you, Killian.”  
  
She may have to throw out that list of expression she hasn’t actually made yet. 

Because whatever happens to Killian’s face as soon as _those_ words are out of her mouth make every other expression pointless. Emma tries not to blink under the force of it, her magic curling at the base of her spine, a warmth that spreads through her chest and makes the ends of her hair flicker again. 

And she’s clearly very slow on the uptake in the morning. 

Her hand finds his cheek as soon as she realizes, magic continuing to do several decidedly magical things. Killian’s eyes fall closed again, a soft burst of air between barely parted lips that ghost over the back of her wrist and--

“We should have led with that,” Emma mumbles, the feel of his answering smile on her skin like several different north stars. She’ll ask him about the accuracy of her pirate-type puns later. “I’ve never really given you that, have I? I...I got the commission and then the Darkness and even Neverland and everything that’s happened here and I--”  
  
The lump in her throat makes it difficult to keep speaking, misplaced tears clouding her vision. He’s still staring at her.

“I think we can do this,” she continues, voice going low of its own accord and even more emotion, “I know we can. And I--I want to help. That’s--”  
  
“--Part and parcel of being the Savior.”  
  
“Something like that. I just...I want to do something good. That would help people and prove--” Emma grits her teeth, frustrated by the twist in her gut, a tightness to her lungs that’s uncomfortable. 

There are not enough numbers in the world for all the expressions he keeps making. She’s lost track. And the latest one isn’t the pity Emma expects. It’s closer to disbelief and, possibly, wonder, which doesn’t make any sense because--  
  
“Stop that,” Killian mutters, no anger in the reprimand. “You don’t have anything to prove, Emma. Nothing. Not to a single person in this bloody realm and certainly not me.”  
  
“But--”  
  
“No, there’s no but. Not this time. Not anymore. That’s--” He shakes his head, a soft laugh and the tip of his thumb finds its way under her chin when her head drops. “C’mon, love look at me. You are...there is so much more to you than being the Savior, Emma. And you’re not good because you’re the Savior. You’re good because you care and you feel and it’s...Gods, love, you are the best person I know. Without the magic.”  
  
She’s crying. It was probably inevitable, but it also feels ridiculous and Emma’s starting to get a little light headed. That’s probably because of whatever her magic is doing. 

Roaring. Singing. Several other verbs that magic should not be capable of doing. 

But there’s also True Love involved, several curses and possibilities, a prophecy she’s desperate to continue living up to and the overwhelmingly intoxicating nature of hope. 

It’s addicting. 

It’s wonderful. 

“That’s really nice.”

“Honest, Swan, there’s a difference.”  
  
“No, there’s not.” She sighs, tongue darting between her lips because she’d started breathing out of her mouth at some point, and it’s even nicer when he doesn't flinch, her head colliding with his shoulder. Maybe she can ask about the box on the Jolly.  
  
“And that’s still not an answer, About the ambassador-thing or the horizon.”  
  
“Telling you I’m a sailor and you’ll probably have to get used to me being awake isn’t a good enough excuse?”  
  
“I’m not really looking for an excuse.”  
  
He kisses her shoulder again. “Aye, I know you’re not. I suppose...well, I’m not actually a mind reader, but I know you’re worried, love. About several things and whatever it is you and Scarlet have been whispering about--”  
  
“--It’s not a bad thing.”  
  
“I believe you,” Killian promises. “But I will admit…”  
  
Emma gasps. Also ridiculous. She’s going to figure how to magic coffee too. That would be the truest act of Savior’ism yet. “Oh, you think there’s something going on, don’t you?” she asks, the few dots of color on Killian’s cheeks an answer. “Babe. That’s...it’s not like that. I’m not having secret rendezvous with Will Scarlet.”  
  
“Ok, that’s not what I was saying.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No,” Killian echoes, mouthing at the side of her jaw like that’ll prove his point. “I’m perfectly confident in your continued attraction to my face.”  
  
“Gods, maybe not after that.”  
  
“Tell that to your magic.”  
  
Emma clicks her tongue, but she can’t argue and she doesn’t know what he’s wearing later. It will probably be made of leather. She hopes so. “What are you saying then?” she asks. 

“It’s uh---” The color is stronger now, more dots on his skin and the tips of his ears, brows pulled low like he’s trying to take care on every single letter. “Well, it is a bit of jealousy. Mostly that--I know your heart is uneasy, Swan. I’m not sure about what, but I can tell. And I...it’s my job, at least I hope it’s my job, to protect your heart. Even when no one’s demanding you yank it out of your chest.”

Emma’s magic rattles the window in front of them. 

“It’s really unfair when you say stuff like that.”  
  
“That wasn’t my goal.”  
  
“I know,” Emma says. There are still tears on her cheeks, fingers tracing aimless patterns on the curve of Killian’s shoulder, and it better be leather later. If she doesn’t get to dance with a leather-clad pirate she may actually scream. Or kiss him. Right in the middle of the coronation. That’ll show everyone. “I am really attracted to your face,” she adds. “And, you know, like, everything else.”  
  
“I’m glad.”  
  
“Yeah, me too. But you don’t have to keep double checking on your job. Protecting hearts or whatever. That’s--” Her lips are dry again. She needs to learn to breathe. That’s very difficult when Killian keeps looking at her like that. “I love you,” Emma says, another admission she hopes sounds better than the last one. “Just--is more than anything another lame thing to say?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No,” Killian repeats, and they’re still going in a circle, even if this one is slightly different and a little more romantic. “It’s not.”  
  
“I’m going to say something else.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
Emma widens her eyes, fully expecting the expression she gets. Her magic flutters. And Killian’s ears may stay red until the coronation. She hopes so. “Yes,” Emma nods. “So, I want you to listen to me, ok?”  
  
“I am a rapt audience, your highness.”  
  
“You are frustrating.”  
  
“Is that what you were going to say?”  
  
“Killian!” He chuckles, a quick kiss pressed to the corner of her mouth and she can barely hear his _go on love_ over the ringing in her ears. “I--” Emma starts, scowling because she’s never been good at sweeping. She’s all action and immediate response. She’s not speeches. Or words. That’s him. It’s always been him. And that’s--well, it’s always been Killian. That’s the point. “I think we can do this,” she says. “Whatever name we give it. I think we can help people and the whole goddamn realm and...I want it. I want--horizons and maybe not dawn, but possibly like...late morning and salt and sunshine and everything we ever talked about, but I...I’m not going to tell you that we’re doing it. Not anymore.”  
  
“Swan--”  
  
She shakes her head deftly, the quick snap of his jaw echoing in the air around them. “A Swan and a Knight.”  
  
“I’m not sure Knight has ever been the correct adjective.”  
  
“You’ve got to stop that,” she chastises, only a little annoyed at his continued shirtless state because it leaves her with nothing to tug on. She settles for tapping her finger against his jaw. He nips at her. “That too,” Emma grumbles, but Killian grins and catches her wrist with his fingers, pressing his lips to the inside of her palm. “It’s always been that, Killian. Knight protector or whatever the right term is. I could ask Regina if you want.”  
  
“You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“I would.”  
  
“I know you would.”  
  
“Good,” she says. “I’m not telling Scarlet super top secret things, by the way. There’s no...Gods, how do you do all these sweeping speeches?”  
  
Killian laughs, curling against her until it’s all but impossible to figure out where Emma ends and he starts and that’s also decidedly romantic and only slightly melodramatic. “It’s a talent,” he mutters. “And I know that rationally, love. I just--I’m greedy with you, I suppose. If there’s something going on, I’d rather you--”  
  
“--Told you first?”  
  
“It sounds insane like that.”  
  
“Nah,” Emma objects. “Maybe a little clingy, but we did talk about how stupidly attracted I am to your face, so…”  
  
“You genuinely are the most eloquent lass I’ve ever met.”  
  
“Yeah, call me lass one more time and see how that works out for you.”  
  
He tugs her arm down, hand still there and Emma nearly forgot it was. She supposes that’s a good sign. She’s not sure of what, precisely, maybe successful magic and--whatever else she was thinking flies out of her head as soon Killian’s lips graze the bend of her knuckles. 

She feels his lips turn up. 

“Frustrating,” Emma bites out, but that only makes the smile more pronounced. “And, not to belabor the point, but we still haven’t agreed. David may challenge you to a duel if we don’t.”  
  
“I’d like to see him try.”  
  
“Awfully confident in our swordsmanship, aren’t we?”  
  
“No reason not to be. You were rather distracted before.”  
  
“You are deflecting.”  
  
Killian shakes his head. “I’m trying to get you to agree with me, love.”  
  
“Gods,” Emma groans, but her magic continues to shift and she’s far more awake now, something almost like excitement fluttering under her skin. “Yes, ok? I think the sword thing is a good thing and--”  
  
She doesn’t finish. She hadn’t really expected to. 

Killian surges up, mouth insistent against hers with what might actually be longing and that’s just as absurd as any of the pointedly melodramatic things she’s been thinking that morning because she’s not going anywhere and not doing anything without him, but it’s been a lifetime and mistakes and--Emma’s hands dive into his hair, pulling him closer, which she’s only a little worried is actually impossible, but her mind doesn’t care and her magic doesn’t care and one of them probably makes that sound. 

It’s likely both of them. 

She’s moving, not sure if it’s her of her own volition or simply because of the hand directing her, legs splayed on either side of his knees. She rocks down at the same time he shifts up, a burst of friction and need that makes her dizzy. 

“See,” Emma mumbles. “Should have stayed in bed.”  
  
“Then we wouldn’t have talked at all.”

One of the candles on the other side of the room flares.  
  
Killian’s laugh turns triumphant, the heat in Emma’s cheeks only a little embarrassing when he’s got a hand drifting dangerously high up her side. “I love you too,” he says. “I hadn’t mentioned that before.”  
  
“I knew.”

He pulls back, the muscles in his throat moving when he swallows, and Emma regrets that a bit. Mostly because it’s not kissing and she can only be expected to deal with so much meaning in so many looks before, approximately, nine in the morning. 

That’s when the lady’s maids are supposed to show up and crush her ribs. 

Killian stares at her, one side of his mouth pulling up and his fingers ghosting over the side of her still-flushed cheek. “I know you did,” he whispers. “From the very start, aye?”  
  
“You came after me.”  
  
She breathes out the words -- all emotion and history and far too much magic. The candle is still lit, a burst of color in the flame. And she’s lost complete control of her limbs, neck giving up because her head drops and her fingers can’t seem to stop moving, determined to touch as much of him as she can. 

“Every single time, Swan.”  
  
Emma nods again, a flush of emotion that she’s not sure she’s ever experienced before. It’s stronger than anything else, maybe a little stubborn and as greedy as Killian claims to be, a little piratical and decidedly royal, a demand and decree and--”Maybe we don’t have to do that anymore,” she says. “Just...I mean, well, we wouldn’t have to if we were--”  
  
“--Together?”  
  
“Yeah. Exactly that.”  
  
He rivals the light from the candle. And the sun. It’s gotten impossibly sunny in their room. That may also be a sign. And they spend a few more moments kissing, hands and lips that aren’t nearly enough, but then he’s staring at her again and Emma can feel her shoulders heave. 

She’s having a hard time catching her breath.  
  
“That’s all I’ve wanted, love.” She may still be crying. It’s...perfect. “So, that’s a--that’s a yes, then? Ambasador-ship and other kingdoms and--”

He can barely get the words out, one letter overlapping the other, and Emma’s never heard that tone before, excitement in every sound that reminds her a bit of Henry and even more like the start, hope and want and she can’t stop nodding. 

“I was asking you, babe.”  
  
Killian widens his eyes, but there’s no frustration there. He looks overjoyed. “We’d need a ship,” he says, and Emma’s magic practically leaps straight out of her. And for the first time in the history of _anything_ , Killian doesn’t notice, a continued string of plans and mumbled words and whatever it is his hand has started doing under her shirt. “There’s probably still a few in Misthaven, but I’d have to ask David about the state of them and, actually, I could talk to Merida--DunBroch’s notorious for well-crafted vessels, although they’re usually a little more rugged than what we might be looking for. I’m sure I could persuade her to rethink the design though, enough gold and people are usually willing to--”  
  
“--How much gold do you have?”  
  
“Enough that we don’t have to touch a coin in the royal treasury.”  
  
Emma’s jaw drops, more questions threatening to bubble out of her, but they get caught in her throat when the first knock comes. 

The second knock is louder. 

The third knock is, absolutely, a kick. 

“What, Scarlet?” Killian yells, arm tightening around Emma’s waist. 

The knocking stops. Emma can’t help the snicker she lets out, body shaking against Killian’s chest, but then realization slams into the back of her brain and she also stops making noise. 

“Scarlet?” she calls, trying to temper the want curling in her stomach. It doesn’t work. Mostly because it’s not actually want. It’s more hope and quickly spoken words, the feel of Killian’s palm flat on her skin. “Is that actually you?”  
  
“It’s definitely him,” Killian mumbles. “Kicking on doors is his favorite pastime.”  
  
“Ok, that is false,” Will argues, what sounds like his whole being slamming into the heavy wood of the door. Killian glances at Emma. “And this doesn’t have anything to do with you, Jones.”  
  
Killian keeps glancing at Emma. Which means it’s more like a stare, but her hope is full-fledged now and he missed her magic once. 

It’d be foolish to believe that would happen again. 

They’re far from fools. 

She hopes, at least. 

“Em,” Will continues. “This is--it’s important. I think...I think it’s going to work.”

She clenches her jaw, a sharp inhale because hope floats or so the idiom claims and that’s in the wheelhouse of pirate-type jokes or, at least, water-type jokes and Emma’s _yeah_ sounds far too breathless. 

Will groans. “Yes. I mean--you know, I’m cautiously optimistic.”

“That’s better than normal.”  
  
“And that’s rude.”  
  
Killian’s eyes are still boring a rather large hole in the side of Emma’s head, curiosity palpable. That’s probably because they’re so close to each other. “What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“Nothing,” Emma says at the same time Will shouts “Good shit, Jones.” 

His mouth twitches again. 

“Don’t,” Emma warns. “This is...it’s not a secret, but it’s--”  
  
“--It’s definitely a secret,” Will interrupts. “But if this works, it’s going to be a very fantastic surprise too.”  
  
Killian blinks. “What are you doing, Swan?”  
  
“Something possibly and hopefully really good.”  
  
“That’s a lot of qualifiers.”  
  
“Yeah, it is.”  
  
He considers that, gaze turning appraising and Emma resists the urge to grab the blanket again. Or ask why Will was also up shortly after dawn conducting magical science experiments. It’d be a silly question anyway. 

She knows he wants to help. 

“Ok,” Killian says eventually, standing and letting his fingers linger in Emma’s space for a moment before reaching to grab a shirt draped over a different chair. “You should put pants on.”  
  
Will gags. Loudly. 

“That doesn’t have anything to do with you, Scarlet,” Killian adds. His eyes flit back towards Emma, brushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear and this is going to work. She’s got no idea what Scarlet did. It doesn’t matter. Her magic has never done that. 

The candle is brighter than ever. 

“And you should probably put David out of his misery,” Emma says. “I’m sure he’ll want us to sign something or do something absurdly official.”  
  
“Royals. Always so fond of their paperwork.”  
  
“Oh, that sounded like an insult.”

“This is the worst thing in the world,” Will moans, those knocks turning pitiful, as if he couldn’t muster the energy for them. 

Killian laughs, tugging on a shirt. “Still not including you! I’ll find David, Swan. You go--” He waves a hand towards the door. “--Work on your surprises. Try not to be late for the gown fitting, huh?”  
  
“I’m not going to be late!”  
  
“I’m sure you won’t.”  
  
“That’s also an insult.”  
  
“No, Swan, years of experience. Incidentally, what color is the dress?”  
  
“Oh, now you're cheating.”  
  
“One word. That’s all.”  
  
“I am dying out here,” Will yells, Emma shaking her head because, maybe, she can work more than one surprise in the next few hours.  
  
“I’m not going to be late,” she promises. Killian hums, a curl to his lips that leaves Emma with her tongue peeking between her lips and her magic doing something she’s having a hard time controlling. “Seriously. This is going to be great, right Scarlet?”  
  
He grunts again. “What? Are you talking to me now?”  
  
“Oh my God. There will be no rule breaking. I’ll see you before the coronation, right?”  
  
Killian nods slowly, that same infuriating expression etched on his face. “But how will I find you if I don’t know what color dress to look for?”  
  
“Go talk to David, Lieutenant.”  
  
He bows. And, really, it shouldn’t be as charming as it is, because Emma knows he’s teasing and still a little worried about whatever she very obviously isn’t telling him, but she can’t think about any of that when be ducks his gaze, a flourish of his arm and the tip of his tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth. 

“As you wish, your highness,” he says, fingers finding hers and Emma isn’t entirely sure if he does actually kiss her hand. She hopes. Again. Still. She’s got no idea how to get that candle to go out. “Don’t be late.”  
  
“Go!”  
  
He waggles his eyebrows, jogging towards the door and a near-prostrate Will on the other side, Emma tugging on pants as quickly as she can. “Well,” Will says with a smile, swinging a small vial of what is very clearly a potion between his fingers. “You ready to save a pirate and get a proposal out of this?”  
  
“I will curse you.”  
  
“Nuh uh. You guys are gross and you’re going to break a shit ton of royal rules later, I know it.”  
  
“You sound like you’re invested.”  
  
Will shrugs, “Maybe.”  
  
“How much?”  
  
“Enough.”  
  
“With?”  
  
“Both Ruby and Mary Margaret.”  
  
“What?” Emma balks, although she can’t really muster too much surprise. 

“Mary Margaret is very curious about the state of the box and why it hasn’t been used yet. Almost as much as you, princess.”  
  
“Jeez. You get one concoction, possibly, right and--”  
  
“--Oh, it’s definitely right,” Will interrupts, and she didn’t expect that. “I, uh, well, I tested a bunch of stuff, but Belle found a diary last night. Some guy named Cyrus who lived in Wonderland and maybe knew Alice. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that a few drops of it worked on some bushes outside the castle, so...I figure we add your magic and we’ll be good to go with the Jolly.”  
  
Emma blinks -- another burst of emotion that her throat is struggling to deal with and that’s a rather disgusting sentence. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” she says. “The magic and the experimenting on Arendelle plants under cover of night.”  
  
“It sounds way more dramatic like that.”  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
“I know you are,” Will smiles. “And I know both you and Jones feel like you’ve got to make sure everyone is happy. The power of prophecy or whatever. But here’s the thing. We are. And it’s--” He lets out a sardonic laugh, a quick shake of his head and even faster smile. “It’s insane. The magic and the rules and I’ve never had so many people worried about what I was going to wear, but it’s incredible too. 

So I know you think we got caught up in this by mistake, but we don’t. It’s what I told you. We’ve got to be here for a reason. And we want to be here. That’s how families work, right?”  
  
She hugs him. 

It’s not all that dignified and Will mutters something about _be careful of the magic, God_ , but Emma tightens her arms and hooks her chin over his shoulder. “You are a hell of a lot better than any court jester I’ve ever encountered.”  
  
“High praise.”  
  
“You want to go enlarge a pirate ship?”  
  
Will laughs, a quick squeeze of arms that have found their way around her middle. “I thought you’d never ask.”

She has no idea how long they spend in the cove Kristoff shows them -- a hidden space on the far side of the city that he claims “barely anyone’s heard of,” but Emma knows it’s too long as soon as she stumbles back into her room, late for a dress fitting that leaves her struggling to breathe. 

And she barely gets into the hall before the coronation begins, twisting around faces who stare at her with unabashed awe. Will’s half a step ahead of her, already pushing down an aisle clearly reserved for the Misthaven royal family. 

They all do look rather regal. 

Regina glares at her, dark purples in her gown and a red sheen to her lips. David’s shaking his head, gold brocade that matches the color of Mary Margaret’s gown, his hand on his sword while Will steps over his feet. That makes Belle laugh, her gown more yellow than gold, something about the sun and positivity and the ability research, Ruby on her other side with a smile on her face and fabric so red Emma almost overlooks how on the nose it all is. 

Her eyes flit from one person to the next, a soft buzz in the back of her brain that she knows is partially the lingering effects of a considerable amount of magic and partially the magic that’s racing through her in that moment, the feel of his eyes on her making her blush before she’s even met his gaze. 

“If he stares at her any harder, his jaw is going to fall off,” Ruby whispers, clicking her tongue when someone shushes her. It may be Regina. Huh. 

Killian exhales, tugging at the hair behind his ear. They’re going to cause a whole wave of gossip. She will argue it’s because of the clothes -- the detailing on his jacket and the color of his vest, not quite a perfect match to the blue of Emma’s gown, but near enough that it reminds her of foam on waves and something about a storm ending that also feels too on the nose - but it’s not. It’s everything else. 

A team. 

And the future stretching out in front of them. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Emma mutters, Killian’s scoff sounding half like a laugh when he offers her his hand. She grins, fingers laced with his and the silent hope that she doesn’t trip over herself, a bell ringing somewhere that she dimly remembers is the start of the tradition. 

“You think you’re very funny, don’t you?”

“Do you?”  
  
Killian rolls his eyes, not letting go of her hand when she sits down. “You’re interrupting the ceremony, love.”  
  
“Will you be quiet?” David hisses. “Emma, you’ve got to sign the accord later.”  
  
She stabs a finger into Killian’s thigh, making him grimace. “I told you he was going to make us sign something. I knew it.”  
  
“We could have done this days ago, but you two were being all whatever and then you disappeared today and--”  
The Archbishop of Arendelle -- an ancient title with an even more ancient wardrobe who, the scrolls _demanded_ officiate the coronation -- coughs pointedly, Emma’s lips disappearing behind her teeth and Killian’s snicker is far too loud. Regina’s head falls to her hands. 

Both Ruby and Mary Margaret have their hands over their mouths. 

Elsa smiles at them. 

“If everyone from Misthaven is quite done?” the Archbishop asks, and there’s another laugh from somewhere. It’s absolutely Ariel. 

“Yes, your grace,” Regina says. “We’re uh--we’re good.”

He hums, still a little too opinionated for Emma’s liking and she knows she doesn’t imagine Regina’s mumbled _fuck, what a dick_ a few moments later. Ruby doesn’t move her hand for the entire coronation. 

And the entire coronation doesn’t take that long. 

The Archbishop asks questions -- _Do you promise to protect Arendelle? Do you promise to devote yourself to the glory of Arendelle? Do you promise to put the needs of Arendelle above the needs of all else?_ \-- and Elsa nods to every one, voice growing louder with each response because each question gets a little more ridiculous, but there’s something to be said for tradition and eventually the old man steps away. 

So Anna can crown her sister. 

Elsa had made sure of that. A new tradition. 

And Emma doesn’t ever let go of Killian’s hand, his thumb tracing across the back of her skin and leaving her magic thrumming, a feeling she knows they’re both greedy for. 

“Citizens of Arendelle,” Anna says, a speech she’s practiced more times than Emma can count in the last few days, “arise and rejoice for I present to you, for the first time, officially--” Her eyes don’t actually sparkle, but it’s awfully close, Elsa’s shoulders shaking when she tries not to laugh. “--Queen Elsa, the first of her name and the rightful ruler of the kingdom. Long may she reign in peace and prosperity.”

There’s a loud shuffle of feet, chairs scraping and people cheering, but none of them are nearly as joyful as the royal family of Misthaven, because that’s what it is. And what it’s always been. A family. None of whom can possibly be expected to act with decorum. 

They whoop and shout, hands in the air and titles forgotten, bobbing on the balls of their feet and clinging to each other, far too many limbs in one aisle. 

It leaves the rest of the hall stunned, mouths agape and eyes wide. They don’t stop. If anything they get louder, Elsa turning with a scepter in one hand and, if Emma remembers correctly, the scales of justice in the other, flashing them a wide grin. 

Snowflakes begin to fall as soon as she blinks. 

“Long live Queen Elsa,” a voice cries, and it takes Emma a moment to realize who it is. Henry. He’s dressed for a coronation as well, a vest suspiciously like Killian’s and oversized sleeves, standing on a bench next to man with dark hair and his arm around Ariel. 

“Hear hear,” Will yells. “Long live Queen Elsa!”  
  
The cry rings out around them, more than the Misthaven contingent until it’s the entire hall and Elsa looks a little stunned. Anna is jumping up and down. 

And there’s more to the day -- meals and meetings, introductions that seem to last forever and Henry telling Emma _this was fun_ before being ushered back to his room because he isn’t all that interested in a ball. There’s another hall and decorations that required several different votes and a whole platoon of help, strands of ivy hanging from the ceiling and leaves dusted in frost, fires roaring in more than one corner, a warmth to it all that leaves Emma calm and confident and--”You look ridiculously good, you know that?” she asks, turning on Killian as soon as announcements are over. 

They had to be announced. The Archbishop would have passed out otherwise. 

Killian arches an eyebrow. “Do I?”  
  
“You know you do.”  
  
“I was leaning towards it, but it’s nice to have confirmation. And you, love,” he widens his eyes, the spark of something in his gaze working its way directly to Emma’s core, “look stunning.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
He nods slowly, a heaviness that leaves her flushed and warm all over again. “Aye. How quickly do you think we can get out of here before anyone notices we’re missing?”  
  
“That’s not going to work, Hook,” Ariel says, appearing out of, seemingly, nowhere with that same man next to her and Emma assumes it’s Eric. She’d like to meet Eric. Maybe after she makes out with Killian. 

“Go away, Fisk.”  
  
“Nope, you’ve got royal obligations.”  
  
“I am not royal.”  
  
“Those are semantics, aren’t they?” Ariel argues, and there are more footsteps coming towards them. “You agreed to the fancy thing.”  
  
Killian glances at her, hook heavy where it stays on Emma’s hip. “Fancy thing,” he drawls. 

“You heard me.”  
  
“That can’t possibly be what it’s called.”  
  
“It’s not,” David calls. He’s got his arm around Mary Margaret again and a small line of royalty behind him. Emma wouldn't be surprised if he also has whatever she needs to sign in his pocket. “And seriously, Killian, don’t act like you don’t know. We talked about this.”

“Did you just?” Emma asks, Killian eyeing her meaningfully as Ruby snickers a few feet away. 

“Em,” she starts, “how late were you to get dressed?”  
  
“That’s not important.”  
  
“Maybe we should reconsider this position. After all, the captain’s already insulting visiting royalty and you can’t keep a schedule.”  
  
“She was busy,” Mary Margaret reasons, gasping as soon as she realizes what she says. Emma rolls her eyes towards the ceiling. “Forget I said that.”  
  
“Also,” Killian adds. “Fisk hardly counts as visiting royalty, she’s--” He groans when she kicks him, using, presumably, Eric as leverage, and it can’t be good for Regina to keep mumbling under her breath like that. 

Ariel sneers. “It totally counts.”

“Definitely,” Eric confirms, a hand held out in front of him while his other arm does its best to contain Ariel’s flailing limbs. Emma assumes that’s a mermaid characteristic. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Captain. I’ve heard a lot about you.”  
  
Killian takes his hand. “Likewise.”  
  
“Aw, that was nice,” Belle mutters, Will pulling her closer to his side. “So, how exactly does that work? Does royal marriage equal full rule or--”  
  
“--Oh, now you’ve done it,” Will grins. “She’s never going to stop asking questions.”  
  
Killian holds his hand up in mock surrender. “I’m not taking blame for that. That’s obviously Fisk’s fault.”  
  
“Seriously, shut up, Hook,” Ariel growls. “And it depends on the kingdom. The rules of marrying into the monarchy. You know.”  
  
Belle hums thoughtfully, eyes flitting towards Killian. His eyebrows lift again. “Stop that.”  
  
“What?” Belle asks. “I’m naturally curious. Trying to understand this strange, new realm I’m in. That’s all.”  
  
“Yeah, sure it is.”  
  
“I’ve got no idea what you’re suggesting.”  
  
“This is getting almost too obvious isn’t it?” Regina asks, barely moving out of the way when Anna slides towards them. 

“Hi,” she says brightly. “You realize you’re all standing in a weird group together, right? I think you’re scandalizing the Archbishop.”  
  
“We’re not really his biggest fans,” David admits. 

“Yeah, us either, that’s why--”  
  
“--We come presenting a not-used-to-being-royal distraction,” Kristoff finishes, reaching into his jacket for a flask that’s almost comically large. 

Will’s jaw nearly hits the floor. “Shit, what’s in there?”  
  
“If it’s ale, we’re leaving,” Emma warns, only to be brushed off by several less-than-amused hands. Kristoff shakes his head. 

“It’s stronger than that. Brewed in the woods on the far side of the North Mountain.”  
  
“Wow, that sounds mythical.”  
  
“Magical, even. The only springs back there are on the same land that the rock trolls live.”  
  
“We’ve seriously got to see these rock trolls.”  
  
“Later, Em,” Will mutters, fluttering his fingers in Kristoff’s face. “C’mon, this is professional curiosity now.”  
  
Kristoff eyes him speculatively. “Just don’t--” Whatever he’s about to say gets lost in Will’s gasp, a tilt of his head and swig of rock troll alcohol. 

“Oh fuck,” he growls. “That is God awful.”  
  
“I was going to tell you that,” Kristoff says. “It’s, uh...potent.”

Will sticks his tongue out when he gags, drawing more than a few questioning looks and another long glare from the Archbishop. Regina sighs. And pulls the flask out of Will’s hand. “What a dick,” she mumbles, squeezing her eyes shut when she takes a drink. “Emma, sign David’s accord or whatever. Killian, stop insulting the mermaid. Scarlet, don’t gulp this again.”  
  
“Any other marching orders, your majesty?” Killian asks. 

“Yeah, drink this.” She thrusts her hand out, nose still scrunched because the alcohol appears to also have a rather potent smell. 

Killian takes the flask. And they all drink -- Elsa arriving nearly twenty minutes later after being cornered by Phillip and Aurora, practically shouting _give me that_ \-- until they're delightfully buzzed and wobbly on their feet, the music seemingly getting louder the longer they stand there. 

And Emma’s just about to suggest they go somewhere, or possibly dance until they scandalize an entire hall full of very important people, when she hears another voice and a soft _your highness_ , Guinevere and Lancelot with expectant looks on their faces.  
  
“Ma’am,” Lancelot says, holding his hand out.  
  
She glances at Killian, not sure what she’s asking, but he smiles and presses a kiss to her temple. “Soon, love,” he mutters, and that sounds like another promise. “Your highness,” he adds, turning Guinevere's direction. “Would you do me the honor?”  
  
“It would be a delight, Captain.”  
  
They’re gone a moment later, Emma already falling into step with Lancelot, which is messing with her mind a bit, but that may be the alcohol and Killian’s jacket and they need to get out of that hall and--  
  
“I have to admit this dance does come with a request,” Lancelot says, jerking Emma out of her thoughts. She steps on his foot.  
  
“Ah, shit. Oh God, no, no, that’s--damn, that’s not very royal at all, is it?”

He chuckles lightly, a smile she’s certain she could trust very easily. “Not particularly. But then again, I’m not sure many of the other royals here have spent their night drinking rock troll swill.”  
  
“Swill is a good word for it.”  
  
“I thought so. And that’s part of my point. The time for antiquated royalty is behind us, wouldn’t you agree?” Emma nods, not sure she can say much more because she’s definitely more drunk than buzzed and her magic is drifting towards overwhelming. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Lancelot continues, “but as I was saying, this dance comes with a request because, as I’m sure you’ve guessed your highness, good news does travel rather quickly.”  
  
Emma furrows her brow. “I’m not sure I understand.”  
  
“There’s been some talk of you and Captain Jones embarking on several voyages soon. Trips to other kingdoms, acting as envoys of Misthaven. Guinevere and I would like to humbly request you visit Camelot. Rather quickly, in fact.”

“Camelot? Why?”  
  
“Arthur is gone,” Lancelot says. “Left Arendelle a few days ago and he won’t be welcome back in Camelot. That leaves us where we wanted to be, but--” They’ve stopped dancing. This feels oddly cyclical. “There’s still a lot of work to do, repairing the kingdom, making sure those who were loyal to Arthur understand what’s happening, insuring the safety of everyone and, well, it’s a lot to ask, your highness, but we were hoping--”  
  
He trails off, Emma’s gaze moving as well. And Killian’s already looking her direction. He nods. 

Whatever her magic does makes her hope she hasn’t started to glow again. 

That would probably send the Archbishop into shock.

“We’d be happy to,” she says, a smile on her face and honesty in her voice and they’ve started dancing again. 

Lancelot lets out a breath, shoulders sagging as soon as the tension between them disappears. “Thank you, your highness, that’s--”  
  
“--Would you excuse me?”  
  
It’s not particularly regal or even remotely polite, but Lancelot nods anyway and Emma moves, a quick apology muttered to Guinevere as soon as she tugs on the sleeve of Killian’s jacket. “Swan,” he mutters, half question and Emma shakes her head. 

“Come with me.”

She waits until they’re outside the hall, the music quieter in one of those dark corners she’d wanted to find earlier. “Emma, love, what are we--”  
  
“--Do you trust me?”  
  
“Implicitly.”  
  
Emma’s smile actually makes her cheeks ache, fingers curling around the lapels of his jacket to keep her balance when she presses up on her toes. She kisses him. And blinks. 

They land with a thump, flat feet on wooden planks, slightly out of breath because that never really gets easier. Even when the air around them is distinctly salt-tinged. 

“Babe,” Emma mutters, tugging lightly on leather. “You can open your eyes.”  
  
Reasonably, she knows he can’t read her mind. He doesn’t have magic anymore, but that never made much of a difference and part of Emma is certain he knows where they are as soon as the wood creaks under them. 

The look on his face helps too. 

Killian’s eyes snap open, lips pressed into a thin, straight line, a muscle in his jaw jumping when he clenches it hard enough to do lasting damage. His gaze sweeps across the deck, never lingering too long one thing before moving on to the next and Emma doesn’t trust herself to say anything. Or breathe. 

It seems to last forever, an inventory that she also knows isn’t that. It’s hope and disbelief, want and a bit of pirate-type greed because home was never really a place for either of them, but it might have been an idea and a feeling and--

“How?” Killian breathes, his grip on her dress going tight. 

“Magic. And Scarlet, actually. He and Belle have been researching stuff to fight magic water because I’d been trying to fight the bottle, but it’s not about the cage, it’s what’s in the cage and--” He’s staring at her, chest moving quickly, and Emma’s teeth find her lower lip. “It was the water in the bottle. Ursula enchanted that and, well, that’s what we’ve been doing. Me and Will, I mean. It wasn’t a secret, I just--” She shrugs. “Surprise.”  
  
He exhales heavily, body sagging with the force of it. “Surprise,” Killian echoes, hand cupping her cheek with a delicacy that makes her lungs do something impossible again. “Swan, are you--this is the Jolly?”  
  
“Can’t you tell?”  
  
“Aye, I can, I--Gods, I love you.”

He barely gets the words out before he’s kissing her, lips turning hungry in a way that’s nothing but positive and decidedly romantic. Her arms fly up, fingers in his hair and elbows resting on his shoulders. Emma’s mouth opens at the first brush of his tongue and she’s not sure if that’s what makes everything tip, but the word _tip_ is probably inappropriate on a ship and she can feel Killian’s smile as soon as her breath catches, pushing her back with the jut of his hips until she collides with what may actually be the main sail. 

“A menace,” Emma mumbles, a pitiful insult when she sighs it out. Killian hums, catching her mouth again before she can say anything else and she can’t move her hands fast enough. 

One cups the back of his head, trying to keep him exactly where he is, while the other moves down the front of his jacket, pushing on leather and the fabric of his vest, drifting back up to the scruff on his jaw and his hair. 

She’s not sure what sound he makes when she scratches lightly at his skin, nails turning sharp when they find his neck, but any semblance of intelligent thought disappears as soon as Killian’s head drops. His teeth graze the side of her neck, likely leaving marks in his wake and Emma can’t think about that either. 

It feels too goddamn good. 

Her head falls back, another thump that barely registers when her magic feels like it’s exploding out of her. She feels Killian’s laugh before she hears it, forcing herself to open her eyes because--”Oh, shit,” she mumbles.  
  
“That’s not a bad thing, love.”  
  
“Yeah, but you’re never going to shut up about it.”  
  
She’s brighter than usual, a gleam in between each strand of hair and the space between her fingers. It curls around Killian’s shoulder, twists around his waist and the sword belt strapped there. “Oh, that’s true,” he admits, still nosing at her collarbone. “I’ll probably remind you at regular intervals for the foreseeable future.”  
  
“If you can still think of words like that, then we’ve got bigger problems than me glowing.”  
  
“You having a hard time coming up with words, love?”  
  
“Kiss me, Gods.”

He chuckles again, lets his lips linger on her skin for a moment, mouthing at her pulse until there’s absolutely a mark there and Emma’s magic jumps, impatience and want in equal measure. “Royal,” Killian murmurs. “And longer than just foreseeable.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“Indefinitely. Forever? The rest of our lives and possibly beyond that?”  
  
“Now you’re getting spiritual on me.”  
  
“We do know several gods.”  
  
“This is not the kissing I requested.”  
  
“Demanded,” Killian amends, and Emma’s eyes close when his fingers brush over her shoulder, pulling the sleeve of her dress down. They’re a knot of limbs after that, moving fabric and ridding themselves of ostentatious leather jackets, hands and fingers drifting lower, lower, _lower_ , impossibly slow and far too quickly, a contradiction that Emma’s more than willing to live for the rest of their lives.

If not longer. 

Until. She gets impatient. And greedy. 

_Pirate_. 

Emma’s fingers find his wrist, dragging his hand further down into a mess of fabric. She hitches her leg up, her palms flat on his back and she has no idea who is breathing harder. Her eyes find Killian’s, barely any blue left and, for the first time, that’s not terrifying. It’s exactly what she’s hoping for, a heat in his gaze that makes her feel like they’re on even footing even when they’re not moving. 

Until. Again. 

His hand shifts, a mumbled curse and she’s grateful for whatever it is she’s leaning on, arching her back against it. “Gods, like that,” she whispers, Killian’s head dropping to her shoulder and everything turns desperate rather quickly. 

Emma rocks up at the same time his fingers twist, a burst in the very center of her that’s as emotional as it is magical and the two have always gone together anyway. Her hands drift again, over his neck and across his back, marking every inch of him until she’s certain she’s branded herself there, while Killian mutters encouragements and promises in her ear, alternating between heady and honest, a line that makes all the others shift irrevocably. 

And Emma doesn’t know how long it lasts. It feels like forever and not nearly enough, stars exploding behind her eyes and magic roaring through her veins, a gasp of air and pulse that’s been at the center of everything. 

Since the very start. 

They do move, eventually, stumbling down the ladder to the captain’s quarters with smiles on their faces and roaming hands, Killian’s jacket forgotten on deck. And the cabin isn’t quite what she remembers from the last time she was there, little things that prove there was someone else there after Killian, enough that he tenses at the sight. 

She kisses him that time. 

It’s not an explicit distraction, but the tension disappears and her feet aren’t on the ground, moving backwards towards a cot that’s still small and still comfortable and as close to perfect as anything’s ever been. 

Especially with less clothing. 

It’s hours later, moonlight instead of sunlight streaming across a different floor, Killian’s voice soft in her ear while his fingers trace across her side. Emma can feel the tug of sleep, only a little worried about what will happen because they’ve disappeared from another event when--

“What was that?” Killian asks sharply, a noise on deck that doesn’t sound like a thud or anything particularly threatening, but does _sound_ and this is supposed to be a secret cove no one knows about. 

“Is I don’t care an answer?”  
  
“Technically, yes, but--”  
  
The sound comes again, obvious footsteps and Killian’s moving immediately, pants on and no boots and his sword in his hand. Emma waves her hand, clothes back on. “Why didn’t you do that for me?” he asks, eyes snapping up when the footsteps move again. 

“You were already moving. That’s--”  
  
“Savior! Captain!”  
  
Killian drops his sword. “Fucking hell.”  
  
That about sums it up because Emma can’t wrap her mind around that voice appearing in this moment, still a little muddled from kisses and the mark she can just make out on the side of Killian’s neck. The seeress calls their name again, not quite as commanding that time, like she realizes she’s interrupting. 

“C’mon, love,” Killian mutters, holding his hand out and she still looks exactly the same when they step back on deck. Her head is bowed, hands covering her eyes, but there’s something slightly different, as if a weight has been lifted and, seriously, Emma needs to find some coffee at some point. 

Or keep kissing her boyfriend. 

That title seems silly after _longer than forever_ though. 

“Savior,” the seeress says. “Thank you.”  
  
Emma waits. For the rest of it, nerves clawing at the back of her brain. There isn't anything. No words. No brand-new prophecy. Just the goddamn seeress staring at her. 

Kind of. 

“Wait, what?” Emma asks. “I don’t--”  
  
“--Thank you,” the seeress repeats. “The prophecy is safe. And it will continue to be. With both of you here together.”  
  
“Is that a joke?”  
  
The seeress doesn’t blink, but her head shakes quickly, a normalcy to it that Emma doesn’t entirely appreciate. “No, Savior. You and the Captain are back on the correct path. Mistakes have been fixed and the future of this realm is preserved. In other words--”  
  
“--Seriously, is this a--”

“True Love should be applauded,” the seeress continues, unperturbed by Emma’s frustration. Killian’s fingers find hers again. “So I have come to thank you. And to bear a gift.”  
  
“A gift,” Killian says. “From?”  
  
“A friend.”  
  
The seeress twists her wrist, the sword landing at their feet. Emma gasps. She hates that. But she can’t help it because she knows, as soon as the moonlight reflects off the hilt, the familiar curve of it and Killian’s hand doesn’t leave hers when he crouches down. 

“This is…” he starts, the seeress nodding. She might be smiling. It’s not as off-putting as Emma would have expected. 

“It is. She’s rather glad you’re happy, Captain. Said you deserved it. You both do.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“You know the answer to that.”

Killian nods, standing slowly and Emma doesn’t think before she curls against his side. “Persephone sent that?” she asks. “For Killian?”  
  
“For both of you. You’ve saved everything, Emma. As you were destined to. And now, the two of you will continue to do just that. Together. As the prophecy foretold.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Emma hums, Killian’s hand curling around her waist. He’s smiling when he kisses the top of her hair, not quite a dismissal, because they can’t do that to the seeress and it’s not entirely her fault, but they were in bed and--the seeress smiles wider. “I hope to see you again soon,” she says. “I look forward to meeting your family.”

She’s gone before either one of them can open their mouths, leaving the sword on the deck and Emma’s heart pounding against her chest. And then. Killian laughs. He throws his head back, body shaking and the sound makes Emma’s mouth twist into a smile, joy mixing with magic and a bit of still-potent alcohol, spinning her back towards him so she can push up on her toes. 

“Not exactly subtle was she?”

“Not really. That’s...well, since the start, right?”  
  
“Oh aye. But I wouldn’t be opposed to a few days alone with you before we start.”  
  
“Pirate.”  
  
“And yours.”  
  
Her magic leaps. And that, _that_ , is exactly the same. Like it’s always been. Even on different water with different memories. “Good,” she whispers, curling her finger around the loop of his belt. “C’mon. You’re wearing too many clothes again.”  
  
He’s still laughing when they fall back onto the cot, but that changes rather quickly, a victory Emma will likely talk about every day for the rest of forever. 

And they don’t leave the ship for three days, a message via bird, before the return to royalty and Killian’s fingers reach for her when they stand in front of the helm, a course set for Camelot. 

“Ready?” she asks, a silly question. She knows the answer. 

“Every single time, Swan,” Killian says, and it’s a different promise. It’s not a guarantee that he’ll come back, it’s better, a certainty that whatever comes next, wherever they go, they’ll do it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's pretty much the end of the "official" story - there are two more chapters of future epilogue-type stuff because I have absolutely no self control at all. If you've read this or clicked or looked or had one passing thought about this mess of words, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	26. Chapter 26

“Henry!”

Silence. Well, relative. A ship, Emma has quickly come to learn in the nearly eleven months since they first set sail for Camelot, is far from ever silent. There are near-constant footsteps and creaking wood and sails that flutter in a variety of different breezes. There’s a murmuring crew and a rowdy crew, depending on the amount of rum on board and how recently they’ve left port, and, in the last few weeks, there’s been a kid who likes to sleep well past dawn. 

It’s a sleep schedule that Emma currently finds herself battling against, and they’d docked nearly an hour earlier. 

In Misthaven. 

They’re back in Misthaven. 

And it’s not the first time – they return home fairly regularly with updates from other kingdoms and Camelot hasn’t burst into flame or open rebellion yet, so Emma assumes they’re doing a pretty damn good job of this whole envoy thing and the trip to DunBroch was easy. Fun, almost.

Enough that neither Emma nor Killian felt bad about bringing Henry with them and that was kind of nice too. 

Because there’s also the clang of swords on a ship, mock fights and instructions that make Emma’s heart regularly fly into the back of her throat, a wave of emotion she’ll contend with eventually, she’s sure. 

It’ll be easier now that they’re home. 

Or so she’s told herself for the last three days. 

“Henry,” she calls again, rapping her knuckles on the closed door in front of her. “C’mon, kid, we’ve got to go or Mary Margaret’s going to start sending flocks of birds after us!”

There’s a soft cough behind her, the telltale sound of movement on the stairs. Emma resists the urge to let her head fall forward, well aware that the wood of that door does not have much give and she’s going to have to get measured for a new gown. 

And, really, she’s not _that_ worried. Not really. Because they’re home. And things have been good. They’ve been diplomatic and magical and waking up with Killian’s arm curled around her has become something that Emma covets more than she originally expected, but she feels like she’s about to throw a wrench into all of this and they’ve got a wedding to go to and--

Mr. Smee coughs again. It’s slightly more pointed that time. 

“Yuh huh,” Emma mutters, and her head, does in fact, drop forward. It hurts as much as she figured it would. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, your highness, but, uh--well, the lad’s not here.”  
  
Emma whips her head around. It makes her dizzy. “How is that possible?”   
  
“He walked, ma’am.”   
  
“Wow, that is just--”   
  
“--If you don’t mind not mentioning that to the Captain,” Smee says, squeezing one eye shut and wringing his hat in his hands. Emma lifts her eyebrows. “It’s just…”   
  
“Did he leave with Killian?”   
  
Smee’s eye snaps back open, nodding slowly and looking a little stunned that Emma is so consistently good at figuring things out. “Are you not supposed to be telling me this, Mr. Smee?”

He’s going to rip his hat in half. 

“Ah, ok,” Emma continues, “so, let me get this straight. We get home, dock at some absurd hour this morning, the Captain promises me I don’t have to come on deck and then he--what? Sneaks off somewhere with Henry?”  
  
“I don’t believe there was much sneaking involved.”   
  
“And where, exactly, were they walking?”   
  
“I haven’t the foggiest.”   
  
“Well, you’re not help at all, are you?” Emma snaps, slumping back against the door and she does feel bad. But she’s also fairly certain the hat is actually making noise when Smee keeps twisting it, a scratch of fabric and strands of, possibly, wool, and it must be warm to wear and maybe she’s just losing her mind. 

She a little--not jealous. That’s not the right word at all. It’s because it’s, actually, the perfect word and Emma is being petty and petulant and maybe she’s the kid in this scenario. She slept longer, anyway.

“When did they leave?”  
  
Smee jumps at the question, the hat falling from his grip. “The lad came up on deck while we were docking. Very good with rigging he is now and--”   
  
“--We’ve got to streamline this, Mr. Smee.”   
  
“Aye, aye, of course, mistress. That’s--” 

He cuts himself off when he, presumably, notices the look on Emma’s face. She sort of feels like she’s going into shock. That’s never actually happened to her, so she can’t be entirely sure, but whatever is happening to her lungs makes her wonder if they’re also collapsing and the air around her seems to have disappeared. 

Gods, jealous is such a good word. 

And it’s not the first time the crew has called her that, but it doesn’t happen often. Usually it’s just a slip of the tongue or a slightly presumptuous rookie, which isn’t the correct term at all, but Emma’s still making jokes that are inappropriate for a realm where the kid she and her pirate boyfriend have quasi adopted is really good at securing the rigging. 

Still boyfriend. Still a kind of lame title, all things considered. Probably going to scandalize several royals later. 

It will absolutely make Will cackle. 

That may be worth it. 

Emma huffs, plastering an incredibly fake smile on her face and fluttering her fingers at her side. The hat flies into Mr. Smee’s chest. 

“Oh,” he sputters, and Emma’s smile feels worse. “Thank-thank you, your highness.”

“Have been they gone long?”  
  
“Who?”   
  
“Oh my God,” Emma groans, glancing up when she hears more footsteps coming towards them and Henry’s smile does not look fake. Or forced. It looks somewhere between overjoyed and thrilled, a combination of emotions appropriate for a wedding and Emma figures he hasn’t been attacked by birds demanding the circumference of his waist yet. 

Maybe they’re ahead of schedule.   
  
“Were you looking for me?” he asks, twisting around the wall until the sword strapped around his middle clanks against the wood. 

Emma tries not to growl. It doesn’t work. “Nah, I’m just trying to beat down your door for fun.”  
  
“I wasn’t in there.”   
  
“Yes, thank you, I can see that.”   
  
Mr. Smee turns as red as his hat. He keeps shuffling his feet, rocking from side to side as he tugs the fabric down over his ears and it may be a miracle if he doesn’t actually melt before they get off the ship. 

“Ma’am, if you--”  
  
“--Why were you looking for me?” Henry interrupts, and Emma waves a dismissive hand, tugging the ribbon off her wrist and all but yanking the hair away from the back of her neck. 

“It genuinely does not matter anymore. How was the castle, then? Did you see Mary Margaret yet or…?”  
  
Henry furrows his brows. And tilts his head. The second one seems like confusion-based overkill. “Wait, what?”

“The castle. That’s--” Emma blinks, more nerves in the pit of her stomach and there are enough boots moving above her that she briefly wonders if they’re being boarded. “Wait, wait, wait, did you not actually go to the castle?”  
  
Henry shakes his head. 

And her magic does something at that, flutters and flaps metaphorical wings until it feels like it’s flying up every one of her vertebrae, settling at the base of her skull and making it difficult to focus on anything else. 

Including the latest set of footsteps. 

“What are you lot doing down here?” Killian asks. He’s not dressed for a wedding yet either -- loose shirt and charms hanging from his neck, pants that Emma’s starting to find more and more offensive with each passing week of diplomacy and his sword belt is tighter than Henry’s. It doesn’t hang off his hips, the same blade the seeress had returned to them pressed against his thigh. “Swan, were you looking for Henry?”

She has to grit her teeth against the force of her magic -- frustration and not that and jealous and _absolutely_ that and whatever happens to the ends of Killian’s mouth when he notices. 

She’s staring, rather obviously, at his mouth. 

Mr. Smee appears to be trying to cover his entire face with his hat now. 

“No,” Emma lies, Killian’s eyebrows jumping. “Absolutely not.”  
  
“Right. Well, he’s here now.”   
  
“Yes, I do, actually, have eyes.”   
  
He grins. “Wide open, huh?”   
  
“Ok, I was not sleeping that much,” Emma argues, but it’s partially true and she’s going to blame the overall comfort of the cot. That they’d...borrowed from Arendelle. With magic. Altered sizes and covert exercises in petty theft and the specifics of it don’t matter, especially now, when Killian’s staring at her like that and it really is absurdly warm in this part of the ship. 

Killian hums, quick feet down the stairs and the hand that lands on her hip catches her by surprise. “Right, right,” he laughs, lips brushing over the top of her hair. “Are you ok, love?”  
  
It’s a very loaded question. 

With several different answers, some of which she’s not entirely sure of yet, but Emma’s always kind of acted on instinct anyway and--

She nods. It’s a pitiful lie. 

“Yup. You didn’t go to the castle, then?”  
  
Killian’s lips part, a soft pop, and whatever noise Henry makes because there’s something going on. “Uh, no,” he says, the words somehow coming out quickly and impossibly slow. As if he can’t decide what speed this conversation should take. “That’s--no, we didn’t. We, uh--”   
  
“--Wanted to wait for you,” Henry supplies, far too enthusiastic to be the truth. 

Emma blinks. “Yeah, you may have to work on that if you want it sound plausible in the future.”

“It’s not a lie!”  
  
“Sure it’s not. Did you actually help with the rigging or was that just--”   
  
“--No, the lad’s rather good at that, actually,” Killian cuts in, glancing at a slightly flushed Henry. “Most efficient crew member we have, by far.”   
  
Mr. Smee is still standing there. And, very obviously, not happy about it. 

“And then?” Emma prompts. “If the rigging was so great, why leave the ship and not go to the castle? Regina’s probably burning things. Mary Margaret is genuinely going to send birds after us if we don’t get clothes for this thing.”  
  
“If we could not call my wedding a thing, that would be great!”   
  
Emma’s eyes widen at the same times Killian’s roll in especially dramatic fashion, Henry yelping and Mr. Smee staying suspiciously quiet. As if silence will help him disappear. 

“So were you guys going to come up here or, like, what was your plan, exactly?” Will continues, not bothering to come any closer. That’s probably for the best. There’s not a ton of room below deck, and Emma’s already having a hard enough time controlling her magic. 

That may have something to do with the hook tracing circles on the small of her back. 

“Bastard,” Killian mumbles, mostly into Emma’s hair. She scoffs, smile feeling a little more normal even as her magic continues to thrum. 

Henry clamors up the stairs, barely keeping his footing, with Mr. Smee tailing close behind, mumbling something that sounds like _got to go get the men in order cap’n_ and Killian is not listening. He’s pressing kisses across the side of Emma’s cheek. 

“I really doubt Regina is burning things.”  
  
“Gods, if this is your flirting, it needs some serious work.”   
  
Killian chuckles, nipping at the shell of her ear and Emma swears her whole soul nearly flies out of her body. He jerks back, probably because her magic apparently knows no bounds anymore, worry mixing with something like astonishment, and she grimaces hard enough it makes her teeth ache. “What was that?”   
  
“I don’t know.”   
  
“Swan.”   
  
“I don’t--” She clicks her teeth and this isn’t right. This isn’t the moment. She’s not sure what the moment looks like, only that _this_ isn’t it. The moment should have more moonlight. Possibly fewer clothes. Certainly less crew members in close proximity. “Seriously,” she says. “Where did you two go? Was it a sword thing?”   
  
“Sword thing?”   
  
“Yeah, I mean---Henry came back armed.”   
  
“It would take a power much stronger than me to get the lad to remove the blade from his hip,” Killian reasons, and Emma knows that’s true too. It’s not exactly like Killian’s, but it’s fairly close, forged by the same blacksmith with the Misthaven crest etched in the hilt and Emma had been a little worried, until she saw Henry’s reaction and what it meant, proof positive that he was part of _something_ and she’s fairly certain he only takes it off when he sleeps. 

Maybe not even then.

“So it wasn’t a sword thing? Not like...secret instructions at a place that wasn’t the castle?”  
  
“We did not go to the castle, Swan.”   
  
“Are you going to make me guess?”   
  
“You can if you want.”   
  
She exhales, all drama and a distinct amount of flirting because, despite what she may have proclaimed, they are very good at this and that’s the crux of their problem. It’s not a problem. Oh, Gods, she hopes it’s not a problem. 

She hopes. 

Again and again and again. 

Killian’s thumb drags along her jaw, a measured movement that helps Emma catch her breath and her magic doesn’t settle, per se, but it’s, at least, a little softer now, like the water on the edge of the shore, pushing lightly at the sand without overwhelming it. 

Imagining herself as sand in this metaphor is, easily, the most ridiculous thing she’s ever thought.

“Every thought you’ve ever had,” Killian says, “resting right on your face.”  
  
“That’s rude.”   
  
“I never said they were particularly bad thoughts. Confusing, maybe. Since there seem to be several thousand of them in the moment, but your magic is also a fairly good clue.”   
  
“I’m fine,” Emma mutters, hoping that’s not the third lie she’s told in as many minutes. Killian hasn’t moved his thumb, fingers pushing into her hair. “You’re the one keeping secrets.”   
  
“Not secrets. Plans.”   
  
“That so?”   
  
“At least the possibility of them. Or, one, singular. There’s only one plan.”   
  
It takes her a moment to realize what’s happening to the tone of his voice -- not quite a shake, but maybe a quiver, that same sense of hope Emma’s been clinging to for years now, and especially, in the last few days and--

“What are you nervous about?” she asks suddenly, voice rising because things are starting to click and her hope feels like it could make the Jolly Roger fly. 

“Nothing.”  
  
“Killian.”   
  
“Nothing,” he repeats, and it’s nice to know they’re both equally horrible liars. Emma gapes at him, waiting for the rest of the words and only a little disappointed when they don’t come. 

She tugs lightly at the charms hanging over his shirt. “You know, I’ve heard quite a bit of talk over the last few curses regarding the Lieutenant's ability to dance.” His lips twitch again, color dotting his cheeks and there’s something just on the edge of his gaze that makes Emma’s heart feel like it’s growing. That may be another sign of shock. 

“But,” she continues, letting her nails scratch lightly at Killian’s chest. His eyes close. “I’m not entirely sure if that’s based on fact, or just--”  
  
“--Fact,” he cuts in quickly, but just a little breathlessly. 

“Ah, it’s difficult to believe when I’m only hearing rumors. All these years and I’ve never once been asked to dance. Rude, all things considered, don’t you think?”  
  
“That’s not true, at all.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” Killian says. His eyes fly open, far too much blue and that _something_ is, quite suddenly, everything and Emma doesn’t realizes she’s close enough to the door to be pressed against it until her shoulders are digging into the wood. “If memory serves, your highness, several attempts have been made to garner your interest and, once, there were even a few moments of rhythm on a rather precarious fire escape.”

“Does that count?”

The blue disappears, replaced with a glint and a flash, all fire and want, and Emma does her best not to gasp when his hips push against hers. “It certainly sounds like you don’t think so.”  
  
“Weird.”   
  
“Aye, the weirdest.”   
  
“So, uh, where do you think that leaves us?” Emma presses, one arm draped over his shoulders while her other hand does its best to touch as much skin as his shirt will allow. There’s quite a bit. “Because I’d imagine there’ll be a fair share of eligible suitors at this ball. Lots of very important royals with agendas and interest in Misthaven and--”   
  
She gasps. 

It was probably inevitable. 

Killian’s lips drop to the curve of her neck, mouthing at her until her back arches and, this time, her hips press into his and this wasn’t really _her_ plan, but it’s certainly a good deviation on _the_ plan and she gives up on doing anything except feeling. And getting her hands in his hair. 

If only so he’ll gasp too. 

It works. 

Equal footing and all that. 

“Are you having fun, your highness?” he drawls, dragging the words across her collarbone and back up, pressing them into the skin behind her ear and the pinch between her brows. 

“Oh, you are annoying.”  
  
“No, no, Swan, I’m asking you a question. And you’re doing a rather pitiful job of answering it.” Killian leans back, gaze turning appraising with that lingering bit of hope, and it’s not quite the same as it was the very first time, years and curses and more than a few lines around his eyes, but there’s still a hint of it, memories and those same years that have meant so much. 

“Are you alright, love?” 

That doesn’t make her gasp, but it does give her pause -- a levity to the words that makes it clear this isn’t just a normal day and the lump of emotion that appears in her throat is particularly difficult to swallow back. 

Emma nods. 

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I’m--it’ll be fine.” Killian doesn’t look convinced, lips twisted and eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. The stuttering probably doesn’t help Emma’s cause much. “Dance with me later?”

Silence. Well, relative again. She can hear Will laughing and there are other voices, Henry and what sounds like Ruby, and Emma can’t believe she hasn’t dragged them up on deck yet, but she’s grateful and thankful and several other adjectives and--

“I can’t think when you look at me like that,” she adds, Killian’s laugh flying out of him and making the door she’s still pressed against rattle in its frame. 

That’s more her magic’s fault than anything. 

He chuckles lightly, nosing at her cheek while his fingers dance up her side. She forgot she was wearing his shirt. “Aye, that’s the point.”  
  
“Well, that’s cheating.”   
  
“Swan, your magic is doing things to our ship. Now, c’mon, love, let’s-- What?”   
  
This may be the least organized conversation ever. Eventually, Emma will blame several things -- ranging from the color of his eyes, to the absurd cut of his shirt to her aforementioned magic, but mostly it’s just how much she wants and she’s got several suspicions about a variety of different plans and she’s not lying about wanting to dance. 

Or collective pronouns. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Emma stammers, but she’s also having a difficult time standing, so she’s not all that surprised at the return of incredulous to Killian’s face. He smiles when he realizes. 

“Isn’t it?”  
  
“That question doesn’t make any sense.”   
  
“Oh, it is, Swan. You shouldn't have to double check.”

She hums, not entirely a dismissal or disagreement, and she’s going to have to stop staring at Killian’s lips at some point. As it is, she’s still looking and they’re still moving, widening into another grin, a confidence that also makes it difficult to form sentences.   
  
“Ours, love,” he says again, and she may actually shiver. It’s absurd. “If anyone else even considers trying to dance with you later, I’ll challenge them to a duel.”

“That’s ridiculous.”  
  
“Factual.”   
  
“Regina will seriously burn things then.”   
  
“That’ll make it more interesting, at least. And I really don’t think she’s going to be all that preoccupied with us, when she’s got--”   
  
“--Oh my God, did you and Henry leave early to go gossip about Regina’s wedding date?”   
  
“Absolutely not.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” Killian echoes. “That was...an unfortunate byproduct and a very excited on his wedding day Will who knows far too many things about far too many people and--”   
  
“--I think that’s a stipulation of being bartender. Ok, wait, wait, so Scarlet is on deck with…”   
  
“Ruby and Anna.”   
  
“And you didn’t go find him?” Killian shakes his head, several strands of hair falling distractingly close to his eyes. Emma sighs. “You are really infuriatingly good at keeping secrets.”   
  
“Only because you don’t want to guess. And it’s not a secret, love. It’s a plan. As discussed.”

She’s just about to respond -- something snarky and still in the realm of flirting, but then the noises on the ship are joined by the noise her stomach makes, a soft growl of hunger that leaves Killian’s shoulders shaking and Emma’s cheeks flaming. 

“Oh shut up,” she grumbles, fully expecting that to make him laugh louder. “You cannot fight anyone later.”  
  
“I’m not really planning on it, honestly.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” Killian says again, a quick kiss that’s not nearly enough, even when Will is shouting for them again. “We are going to dance every single dance, your highness. That’s all there is to it.”   
  
“Greedy.”   
  
“Pirate.” Her stomach makes another noise, and joy looks very good on Captain Killian Jones’ face. Emma hopes it stays that way. The metaphorical wrench is getting awfully heavy in the back of her mind. Particularly when his finger drift across the front of her shirt, like they’re drawn to the sound and Emma begs every single god she can think of that her magic doesn't react. 

Nothing. 

Miracles. Or whatever. 

“C’mon, love. Let’s get you some food and Scarlet can regale you with tales of the romantic interludes of Misthaven’s ruling family.”

* * *

Will Scarlet does, in fact, have several opinions and fascinating tidbits of gossip to share, several hours before he, finally, gets married. 

He keeps using that word. 

Finally. 

Over and over, again and again, a repeat that makes Emma mumble _broken record_ under her breath and Anna asks what that is and the whole thing happens several times before Ruby makes a noise of complete and absolute frustration in the back of her throat. 

It hardly makes him slow down. 

He keeps talking -- updates and rumors, meetings and moments that are far less official than that, and they all continue to listen, even if Ruby also continues to make that noise in the back of her throat, because Emma has missed home just a bit and she’s very content on the deck of the Jolly Roger. 

“You know,” Will says pointedly, “you never did pay me back.”  
  
Emma lifts her eyebrows. “For what?”

“I spent a lot of money on that jukebox and it got completely fucked--ah, damn, sorry, Henry.” Henry waves a hand, far too preoccupied by the food to properly scandalized. “Anyway,” Will continues, “That jukebox was expensive and it had some good albums--”  
  
“--Céline Dion.”   
  
“Is not a bad album. Let’s not insult Céline Dion on my wedding day, huh?”   
  
“I’m not sure those things go together.”   
  
“He’s going to mention wedding day at every conceivable moment,” Ruby mutters, twisting the amulet around her neck. “It’s been the same way for the last week.”

“That’s almost too much, isn’t it?” Killian asks. He’s leaning against the railing at the bow of the ship, an arm around Emma’s waist while his hand fiddles with half a loaf of bread. He keeps handing her pieces. She keeps taking them. 

There’s probably a metaphor there as well. 

“And,” he adds, “that jukebox was, like, third hand. You bid on that with some guy from, where was he from?”  
  
“I don’t remember,” Will answers sullenly.

“He was from Manitoba--”  
  
“--Oh my God, seriously,” Ruby squawks, Killian nodding seriously. “How much did you pay for the jukebox, Scarlet?”   
  
“What exactly is a Manitoba?” Anna cuts in. “Is that where Henry’s from?”   
  
Henry does not stop eating. 

“The jukebox was a piece of garbage,” Killian says. “You knew it, we knew it, the guy from Manitoba certainly knew it. That’s why he stopped bidding with you when you went over two hundred. You overpaid.”  
  
Will glowers at him. “Yeah, well, you’re a pirate, your sense of money is all skewed.”   
  
“The insult does lose some weight the more you keep bringing it up.”   
  
“I know.” He sighs, slumping further, which is impressive since he’s also sitting cross-legged on deck and it’s a testament to _everything_ that none of the crew was even remotely surprised by it. “Whatever, this is romance. I am romantic. And I am psyched--”   
  
“--Ah, use a different word,” Ruby mutters, and Will does a fairly horrible job of flipping her off covertly. Anna snickers. 

“This is romance. Céline Dion is romantic. And, incidentally, I am not the only one with romance hanging in the air around me.”  
  
“Phrase that differently,” Killian mumbles, although _that_ insult also loses a considerable amount of weight when he doesn't bother moving his head away from Emma to utter it. 

Ruby blushes. 

“Oh,” Emma breathes. “What is happening right now?”

“Nothing,” Ruby snaps, an almost audible clack of her teeth when she closes her mouth. 

“Try that again.”  
  
“Lots,” Anna says, before Ruby can deflect anymore. “Like. Lots of stuff is happening. You guys need to come back to Misthaven more often. Because I, for one, am losing my mind with the burst of romantic-type information I’ve been getting.”   
  
“Been real busy, huh, Scarlet?” Killian asks knowingly. Will shrugs. 

“I haven’t really had to say anything. Everyone’s just walking on clouds or something. Which, you know, how come you aren’t floating yet?”  
  
“Excuse me?”   
  
“That’s not a horror movie reference--”   
  
“--What’s a horror movie?” Anna asks, but Ruby has her eyes focused squarely on her shoes and Emma’s gaze haven’t left Ruby. 

“So Regina isn’t the only one with a date to the wedding of the century, then?”  
  
“Swan,” Killian groans, both Anna and Henry laughing again. “Do not call it that. It’s going to do dangerous things to his ego and--”   
  
“--Yeah, let’s focus on Regina, real quick,” Ruby interrupts. “You know that’s all Tink’s fault.”   
  
“How is that possible?”   
  
“Pixie dust.”   
  
“I thought she used the last of that to get onto the ship we stole,” Emma says, Will mumbling _secret pirate adventure_ under his breath. She’s going to get a headache from rolling her eyes. 

Ruby shakes her head. “Nope. And that’s all you, Em, so really this is actually a you problem and you are to blame for the wave of romance we are contending with.”  
  
“You are riding that,” Anna mumbles. 

And Emma is very confused.   
  
“Wait, wait, I--speak English.”

“I am,” Ruby grins. “Try and keep up. You, all powerful Savior, with your True Love and power of positive thinking--” Emma gags. “Stop that. You come home in a whirlwind of curse breaking and death-defying glory, only to sneak off on that little pirate adventure you didn’t bother telling any of us about.”  
  
“She’s very stubborn once she gets an idea,” Killian mutters, Ruby’s grin turning sharp. Emma elbows him in the side. Or tries. He catches her with his hook. 

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that sometimes. Anyway, you guys go to Neverland. You meet Tink with her pixie dust and find Henry. With his belief. You continue being disgustingly in love, save several different kingdoms and right the wrongs that magic had inflicted on this realm. That, according to Tink, helps the fairies repopulate their pixie dust supply.”  
  
Emma is breathing through her mouth. Her eyes have gone very thin. “I don’t--”   
  
“--Oh, I know, because in addition to being impossibly stubborn, you’re also kind of frustratingly humble, which is really stupid and disgustingly pure, but--”   
  
“--Focus, Lucas,’ Killian says. She doesn’t try to hide when she flips him off. 

Emma hopes they don’t corrupt Henry. That won’t bode well for the future. But he’s also got a sword and if this story is going where she thinks it’s going, then maybe it’s ok.

“I will get there if you stop interrupting, Gods,” Ruby sneers. “Where was I?”  
  
“Regina was about to meet Robin in my bar,” Will says, smiling when Emma’s head snaps towards him. “Right?”   
  
“You are ruining this!”   
  
“You’re a bad storyteller, Lucas,” Killian shrugs. He kisses Emma’s cheek when she laughs, Ruby baring suddenly longer-than-usual nails at them. 

Anna sighs. “The pixie dust can point people towards their happy endings. That’s...did you guys not know that?”  
  
“Faith, trust and a little bit of pixie dust, right Captain Hook?” Will asks, grunting when both Emma and Ruby try to kick him at the same time. “It is my wedding day!”

“Ok, ok, ok,” Emma says. She can only wave one hand. Her other arm is still hooked in a, well, hook. “So let me get this straight. Our magic and Henry’s ability to believe in things helped bring back Pixie Dust?” 

“Why are you repeating what I just told you?”  
  
“And this led to Regina meeting some guy in a bar?”   
  
“Hey, c’mon,” Will groans.

“Pixie dust points people towards their happening endings,” Anna repeats. “Which, you know--Regina was happy and good, but, well, I think she was a little...lonely.”  
  
Emma blinks. Several times. “Regina?”   
  
“Is that really surprising? I mean---everyone else is kind of paired off and especially now that Ruby’s meet Dor.” Anna hisses when Ruby swats at her arms, pulling away so quickly she nearly slams into her own ribs. “What is wrong with you people? You are all so violent. Gods, anyway, Regina was kind of on her own and we could all use a good drink, right?” Emma shrugs. “The answer is yes. So Tink offered to help, but Regina is, well, Regina and--”   
  
“--Did she threaten to curse her?” Killian asks lightly.   
  
Ruby winks. 

“It took some convincing,” Will adds, “but then Mary Margaret cornered her and you can imagine how that went.”  
  
“I’m going to tell her you said that,” Emma laughs. “Does this story ever end?”   
  
“Mary Margaret gave a patented speech of the power of love and believing and all that whatever--”   
  
“--I thought it was your wedding day,” Killian interrupts.

“Pay for a new jukebox, Jones!”  
  
“I could probably magic it,” Emma muses. “I’d have to double check with Regina. I’m not sure how electricity would work. Maybe Belle knows. Hey, where is Belle?”   
  
“With Ariel. And the little prince.”   
  
Her magic jumps. It twists and knots and turns and Killian doesn’t try to mask his wide-eyed stare, gaping at her like she’s just caused a variety of hurricanes. Which, really, isn’t all that far off, increasingly strong waves against the hull of the ship that make it rock rather dramatically.

Ruby’s eyes are impossibly thin. 

“What’s happening right now?” Will demands. “I didn’t bring my sword so I can’t defend anyone’s honor if that’s what’s going on.”  
  
“It’s not,” Killian says slowly, eyes still locked on Emma and she’s not sure if the fluttering under her skin is her pulse or her magic. She’s certain it’s visible, though. “Is Bash walking yet?”   
  
“Nuh uh”   
  
“Good, that’s good.”   
  
“Is it?” Will challenges. “Because Ariel’s kid is pretty goddamn cute and will presumably continue to do that since Belle’s got him almost holding rings and that’s what they were practicing and--Em,” he says suddenly, “you’re doing that hair thing again.”   
  
Emma curses, trying desperately to take some kind of calming deep breath. It doesn’t work. There’s far too much salt.

“Swan,” Killian starts, but shakes her head deftly, flashing a wobbly smile that she knows doesn’t work. “Oh, you’ll have to do better than that.”  
  
“Honestly,” Anna adds. “That was bad. Plus, we’re getting distracted. Don’t you want to know who Regina met in the bar?”   
  
Will rolls his whole head. “My bar. It was my bar.”   
  
“Yes, we’re almost painfully aware of that,” Ruby hisses. “Any guesses, Em?”

“I’m not really in a guessing mood.”  
  
“That’s also been a theme,” Killian mumbles, and it can’t be good for Ruby’s eyes to change sizes that quickly. Her lips go thin, thoughts flashing on her face while she shakes her hair off her shoulders and sits up a little straighter. 

And takes a deep breath. 

“Holy--” she gasps, hands flying to her mouth. Will’s eyes are pinballs, bouncing from person to person and lingering on Killian who, in turn, holds onto Emma a bit tighter than usual, anxiety clouding his gaze and this is not the plan. 

There was no plan. 

He’s the one with the plan. 

Gods, they have to go to a ball later. 

“Robin of Locksley,” Anna shouts, leaping up in a mess of limbs and obvious frustration becuase none of them can stay on topic. “It’s Robin of Locksley! She’s been making out with him all over the city.”

Emma’s eyes are going to fall out of her head. Ruby hasn’t moved her hands yet. 

“Or so the rumors say,” Will adds conspiratorially. “But it’s getting harder and harder to find dark corners when there’s all that love I was talking about before. Isn’t that right, Lady Lucas?”  
  
She ignores him. It’s disconcerting, particularly because it means she keeps staring at Emma who is doing her best not to breathe too loudly. 

Or glow. 

“Captain Jones,” Ruby says, and that’s the last thing any of them expect her to say. Killian startles, fingers gripping the side of Emma’s shirt until they threaten to tear the fabric. “Where were you and the young squire returning from when we crossed paths this morning?”

He rips the fabric. 

And Ruby grins triumphantly. 

“What is happening right now?’ Emma asks, turning quickly enough that she can actually see the color move across Killian’s ears. 

“I have no idea.”  
  
“Huh.”   
  
“Em,” Ruby whines. “Seriously? This is the line of questioning?”   
  
Emma glares at her, but she’s never been as good at that as Regina is and maybe that’s changed now too. Maybe that’s a good thing. “Who are you making out with in dark corners? Also, Robin of Locksley? Like...like Robin Hood?”   
  
“Right?” Will chuckles. “He’s a good dude, though.”   
  
“You just called Robin Hood a good dude.”   
  
“Yeah, well, what would you call him? Plus, he’s got some skills behind the bar.”   
  
“You’re making Robin Hood bartend for you?” Killian scoffs. 

“I had a wedding to plan! Anyway, this is not nearly as exciting because--” He mimes a drum roll in the air, Ruby muttering threats and Anna grinning like a love-struck maniac. Henry has finished an entire loaf of bread on his own. ”Ruby is dating, you ready?”  
  
“Tell the story, Scarlet!”   
  
“Dorothy,” Ruby growls. “Her name is Dorothy and she’s from Oz. Well, kind of.”   
  
Emma clicks her tongue. “How are you kind of from Oz?”   
  
“She’s from the Land Without Magic, originally. But there was a tornado and somehow she landed in Oz. There were more things, but now she’s working for that witches council they’ve got there and--”   
  
“--There’s been a lot of making out,” Will whispers. It’s not really a whisper. “So, really, you guys are going to have to battle for supreme couple at this wedding.”   
  
“Is that not just you and Belle by default?” Anna asks, draping over Henry’s back and she can do that now. He’s gotten very tall in the last few years. 

Killian hums. “That does seem like how it should work, right? Maybe you’re actually the worst groom in this kingdom’s very vast history.”

“You do not know this kingdom’s whole history,” Will growls. 

“I know enough and Belle probably knows more, so--”  
  
“--If I find you and Emma making out in dark corners during the course of my wedding, I will not only kick you out, I’ll cut off your entire alcohol supply.”   
  
“You definitely said those in the wrong order.”

“Get on my level! Seriously. It’s been, like, a lifetime, right?”  
  
Killian tenses, breath catching and Emma is fairly certain she’s the only one who notices. Signs, signs, signs. She’s going to horde them all. A sign pirate. 

She can think of, at least, four good corners for making out within walking distance of the Great Hall in the castle off the top of her head. 

Will’s eyes do that thing again, bouncing and darting towards Anna. She doesn’t nod, but she might be breathing a little heavier, fingers fluttering towards the rings around her finger. Ruby’s definitely inhaling with a purpose. 

She laughs. 

It’s loud and disarming, which has always been kind of her thing, but Emma’s never dealt with it in a situation like this, or dealt with a situation like this, and--

“Oh,” she grins, leaning back until she’s resting on the front of Henry’s legs and a bird lands on the railing next to her, “tonight is going to be fun.”

* * *

“M’s, you’ve got to stop making so much noise, people are going to think we’re being attacked.”  
  
Mary Margaret does not stop making noise. She makes more noise. That’s basically what Emma figured would happen, though, so. 

She drops back, falling with a thump on the mattress that isn’t as comfortable as their cot. Mary Margaret sounds like she’s jumping now, unaware of any of the sounds of annoyance Emma is making, even when she throws her arm over her face. 

They’re in Mary Margaret and David’s guest rooms, plural, because Mary Margaret and David have their own castle, singular, on the other side of the kingdom and the whole thing is only a little absurd, but that’s how royalty has always worked and Emma chances a glance up. 

Mary Margaret is, in fact, jumping up and down. 

“This is so good,” she says, and it sounds suspiciously like a chant. It is. She says it several more times, as if repeating the words will force them to be right and Emma chews on her lip, tempering her magic and the thousand different emotions churning in between her ribs. 

"I don’t know if it’s--” Emma starts, but Mary Margaret shakes her head. 

“Of course it is!”  
  
“I don’t think your magic works that way.”

Mary Margaret huffs, but there’s still an energy around her, an excitement Emma’s going to focus on for the next few minutes because her measurements hadn’t changed from the last ball they’d been to, but her dress feels impossibly tight and she doesn’t think it’s actually possible to go into shock as many times as she’s convinced she has already. 

“Have you said anything to Killian?” Emma shakes her head. “Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret sighs, dropping next to her and there are no pillows left on this bed. “That’s ridiculous, you know?”  
  
“Do I though?”   
  
“Well, I do and I’m telling you, it is absurd. Like to the 'nth degree.”   
  
“You didn’t go to college either, your highness.”   
  
Mary Margaret chuckles, letting her head fall to the side and the whole thing feels like another repeat and more symmetry and the overall _niceness_ of it is enough to ignore both of those things. Emma laces her fingers through Mary Margaret’s. 

“That’s true,” she admits, “but I’ve always been very good at picking up on cues and believing in things and let me tell you something, Emma Swan, no one has ever believed in anything more than Killian believes in you. It’s the kind of things stories are made of.”  
  
“Says the lady who shares a heart with her fiancé.”

“If you knew that would have saved him, you would have done it too. This is not--what are you actually worried about? Because, you know, at this point, being worried about Killian seems kind of silly doesn’t it?”  
  
Emma barks out a laugh, but Mary Margaret has got a point and she’s always had several points and--”I’m not really worried about that,” she whispers, words going scratchy in her throat. Mary Margaret squeezes her hand. “There’s just...he’s got a plan and he and Henry disappeared this morning and--”   
  
“--Where?”   
  
“I don’t know, but I’ve got several cliché suspicions.”   
  
“So, one?”   
  
Emma makes a noise, half agreement and mostly just nerves. “None of it’s ever really been normal, M’s, but this--everything with him and us and both of us as unit it’s…” She can’t shrug. She’s on her back. She tries anyway. “When we were cursed he said that being around me was the one normal thing. And that’s always been true. Through all of it, every crazy, insane, absolutely terrible thing. It’s been us and I don’t--”   
  
“--Oh, that’s not going to change,” Mary Margaret says, a note of pleased indulgence in her voice. “Are you worried about---what? Being boring now?”   
  
“Ok, don’t say it like that.”   
  
Mary Margaret’s laugh rings out around them, not quite tinkling, but certainly light enough that she could rival several different fairies. With or without pixie dust. “That’s the dumbest thing I have ever heard in my entire life.”   
  
“Shit, M’s.”   
  
“It is. It is patently dumb and incredibly untrue. If anyone deserves to be boring, it is you two. Gods, even now. You’re always going somewhere and doing something and--” Her eyes widen, understanding settling on her face until the weight of it feels like it will do damage to the mattress. It’s really a garbage mattress. “That’s not going to change, Emma. And, for the record, I think you’re going to be incredible. Both of you. ”   
  
“The mind-reading stuff isn’t as cool now.”   
  
“That’s a complete lie. It’s very cool and you’re very impressed.”

“Maybe a little bit.” Emma mumbles, and Mary Margaret lifts her eyebrows. “A lot. Ok? Fine, is that better?”  
  
“Getting there. Seriously, what are you freaking out about?”   
  
“It’s weird when you say that with a crown on.” Mary Margaret’s eyebrows are quickly turning into a marvel of science. Emma scowls. “I just--I don’t know, after everything, curses and death and not death, do you really think we can just be normal?”   
  
“You just said you were.”

“You’ve got to stop that.”  
  
“I’m only pointing out what you’ve already told me,” Mary Margaret shrugs. “I’m going to say freaking out again, is that ok?”

“Not funny.”  
  
Mary Margaret shakes her head, a twist of her lips because she’s obviously trying not to smile. “Very funny, actually, and still an accurate depiction of what your whole face is doing. The answer to your question is yes, obviously. You’re going in circles because you’re you.”   
  
“What is that supposed to mean?”   
  
“Are you kidding?”   
  
“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

Mary Margaret’s lips part. It’s slightly worse than the previous twist and definitely ten-thousand times more terrible than whatever she’s still doing with her eyebrows, a bit of judgment that Emma doesn’t all together appreciate. “Aw, c’mon,” Mary Margaret mutters, tugging lightly on the side of Emma’s sleeve. “He can feel your magic, Emma. That’s...it was incredible when were here and we were young and didn’t understand anything and it was even more incredible when we were cursed and knew even less. But it’s always been that way. And you--” 

She lets out a soft exhale, a sound that’s far too emotional when Emma may be dealing with more hormones than usual. “You have turned the world upside down for him. You’d do it again, I know you would.”  
  
“You share a heart with David.”   
  
“Exactly, so who better to understand than me? This is a good thing, Emma. The best thing, but for someone who’s dealt with curses and death and not death, you’re still not very good at dealing with the unpredictable are you?”   
  
Emma growls. It hurts her throat. And makes her whole body tense. She she knows Mary Margaret is right. Mary Margaret is always right. 

But there’s a fluttering in her stomach that she hasn’t been able to shake all day because it’s someone’s wedding and Emma kind of wants it to be her wedding and her family and, well, she wants. Full stop. 

The one normal thing. 

“When are you going to tell him?”

Emma’s breath rushes out of her, enough that she swears she nearly flies off the bed. She doesn’t. Her magic, on the other hand. It soars, rattles the curtains on the window and the posts of the bed because, naturally, it’s a four-post bed and everything is so royal and important and the warmth that settles between her fingers is like--

_Home._   
  
Her mind drifts, another memory that she hopes is a sign, a voice in the back of her mind that she’d never been able to forget, even when everything demanded she should have. 

_...it was the safest I’ve ever felt. Like I was home and protected, but that feeling went away eventually. It didn’t linger in the very center of me, didn’t take up root or grow and--Emma, I saw you and it felt like that._

“Oh shit,” Emma sighs, teeth finding her lower lip and it’s probably not a good sign when she can taste blood in her mouth. She can’t even see Mary Margaret’s eyebrows anymore. “Gods, that’s...” she stammers, pushing herself up on her elbows, but that, somehow, only makes the fluttering grow stronger. She’s dangerously close to phosphorescent and the inhale she takes is almost impressively long. 

Emma keeps breathing. Deeply. Counting inhales and measuring exhales, letting her eyes shut and she’s not entirely surprised by the pictures that appear behind her lids. She’s been thinking about them for days anyone, possibilities and maybes and that same bit of hope she’s been clinging to for years. 

She really wants to know where Killian and Henry went that morning. 

“That might be a mark in the this is actually happening column,” Mary Margaret murmurs, and Emma’s fairly certain the noise she makes is a laugh. She wants it to be. 

Gods, she wants so much. 

Her teeth are still digging into her lip, but she lets her arm fall down, draped across her stomach and Mary Margaret’s answering smile is almost wide enough to be concerning. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Emma concedes. “I just...well, I haven’t really had time to, you know, double check or anything.”  
  
Mary Margaret lets out a less-than-dignified snort. “And going into the city would probably alert several thousand people before you could actually tell Killian yourself.”   
  
“You’re really harping on this.”   
  
“I’m a big fan of happily ever after.”

“And you think that’s what this is?”  
  
“Obviously.” She tilts her head, smile going a bit placating, but with something just on the edge, as if she’s been waiting for this moment or, possibly, hoping for it as well and that’s always been Mary Margaret’s forte. “A gazillion years ago I told you that believing in even the possibility of a happy ending is a very powerful thing. But it’s so much more than that, Emma. Because living with that kind of belief? That’s the most powerful thing of all. And you’ve got that. In spades.”

“You’ve been spending way too much time with Will.”

Mary Margaret laughs, tears spilling on her cheeks as her grip tightens. “He never notices when I hide the cards up my sleeve.”  
  
“You’re a cheat.”   
  
“Magic.”   
  
“It always comes down to that, doesn’t it?”   
  
“No,” Mary Margaret shakes her head. “It’s been more than that. And you get to live that. We all do, Emma. Happily ever after isn’t the end. It’s the start of everything else.”   
  
“You’re on a roll.”   
  
“I can tell you’re impressed.”

Emma hums, nodding against pillows and the glow around her softens. It hangs in between in her hair and wraps around the bend of her knuckles, drapes both her and Mary Margaret in pale light and--

“What the hell is happening in here?” David cries, the door nearly flying off the handle when he swings it open. 

Mary Margaret hisses when Emma’s fingers turn vice-like. 

“Are you supposed to be here?” Emma asks. David doesn’t respond. “So, that’s a no, huh?”  
  
“The door was shaking.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“The door,” he repeats, nodding back to the still swinging piece of wood, “was shaking. And I could see the light coming out of it.”   
  
“The doors here don’t go all the way down to the floor?”   
  
“Apparently not. This is why our castle is better.”   
  
“That’s the most insane thing you’ve ever said.”

David huffs, but Mary Margaret isn’t even trying to disguise her laugh now and--”Ruby said something was going on with you,” he adds. Emma is going to break one of Mary Margaret’s fingers. “And Killian too.”  
  
“What?”   
  
“Em, seriously, you’ve got to be more specific.”

She might open her mouth -- mostly so she can continue to breathe out of it, because Emma’s breath has turned into panting rather quickly, another spike of magic that she’s certain Killian will be able to feel, no matter where he and Will happen to be getting ready for this wedding and it’s almost impressive how quickly David puts several things together. 

That is, until he gasps.   
  
Loudly. 

Mary Margaret throws her whole head back when she laughs. 

“Did you tell Killian yet?” David whispers, and Emma is a little annoyed that _happily ever after_ seems to require her to feel as if she’s dying. 

She glares. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Don’t insult me like that. I grew up on a farm and--”   
  
“--Oh my God, David!”   
  
“Ruby was talking about scent and palpable nerves and Henry’s doing that thing where he can hardly contain the excitement in him. Bobbing on the balls of his feet and--”   
  
“--He’s super psyched to meet Robin Hood,” Emma says, but it’s no use and Mary Margaret is still laughing. She sighs. It’s not exactly disappointment. Her heart should not be beating this quickly. “I don’t know for sure,” she whispers. “I don’t--it’s just a…”   
  
“I can actually help with that.”   
  
“I’m sorry, what?”   
  
“Oh shit,” Mary Margaret breathes, yanking her hand away from Emma’s so she can sprint to the other side of the room. She flips her wrist, closing her eyes lightly and David looks far too smug, Mary Margaret's yelp of triumph echoing off the ceiling beams. It’s almost enough that Emma doesn’t notice what else falls on the floor. 

Emma blinks, Mary Margaret brandishing a chain in her face. There’s a charm hanging there as well, twisting in open air and reflecting the light that is, absolutely, coming from the end of Emma’s hair. 

David chuckles softly, rocking back on his feet. “My mother’s,” he explains. “She had it for as long as I could remember, used to help the young girls who lived in the village. It’s uh--”  
  
“You’re blushing,” Emma grins. “It’s magic?”   
  
“She said she got it from traveling withces.”   
  
Emma makes a face, the fluttering growing to something stronger and more powerful, but her eyes drift from the charm to the small rectangle on the floor. She laughs. The sound feels like it explodes out of her, a surge of confidence and certainty and the charm is still twisting. 

Until. 

It stops. 

And Mary Margaret gasps. 

“What is that?” Emma asks, pointing a finger over Mary Margaret’s shoulder. It’s a silly question. She knows the answer. And she didn’t really need the charm. 

Mary Margaret blushes as well. “Oh, uh--it doesn’t work anymore,” she stammers, grabbing what is, quite obviously, an iPod shuffle off the floor. “It was in my pocket before Isaac brought us back. But, you know, it’s not like there’s a ton of electricity here or--”  
  
Someone calls for them in the hall, a reminder that Emma still needs to have her hair pinned and the smile that stretches across her face is equal parts enthusiastic and anxious and she wants, wants, _wants._

All of it. 

Life. And the rest of everything. 

“I think we can do something about that,” she mutters.

* * *

“Is this where Henry gets it?”

Emma rolls her eyes, but Regina’s got a point. She can’t stay still, bobbing on the balls of her feet and tapping her heels and Mary Margaret keeps alternating between smiling like a manic and giggling under her breath, like putting her hand over her mouth will help mask the sound. 

Ruby is definitely sniffing the air. 

Ariel keeps trying to get Bash to sit down, but she’s also wearing a dress that is only a little ridiculous and her kid appears very fond of standing on the wooden bench three aisles away from the altar. Eric’s shoulders keep shaking when his head falls to Bash’s back, an arm wrapped tightly around his waist. 

“I’m just trying to time everything right,” Emma says. “Plus, if you want to get technical, Scarlet is way more nervous than me. Look at him.”  
  
Will doesn’t glare. She’s positive he can’t. “I am getting married.”   
  
“So we’ve heard.”   
  
He opens his mouth to say something else, fingers tugging on the side of a coat that’s only a little ostentatious, but then there’s another set of doors opening and it’s double because _of course_ , all royal and wedding and that second one isn’t really an adjective, but Emma’s far too focused on the burst of magic in her finger tips. 

And the absolutely ancient, nearly forgotten iPod shuffle in her grip flares to life. 

She hits play. 

Killian’s eyes widen, a burst of blue even at the fair end of the aisle, Belle’s arm looped around his and a bouquet of flowers that makes the whole hall smell like a field and another memory and maybe that’ll disrupt Ruby’s scent patterns. 

Belle doesn’t have enough hands for one to fly to her mouth, smile wide and she’s some kind of cliché picture. All soft lace and not quite white, but maybe cream and her eyes are bright with every single thing she’s very obviously feeling. 

Emma can’t blink. 

She can’t bring herself to look away, Killian’s gaze boring into the very center of her with an intensity that makes her dig her heels into the ground. As if that will be able to keep her there. 

Regina laughs. 

Mary Margaret sniffles. 

And the music rings out, Emma’s thumb moving in small semicircles, the sound of Will’s audible joy echoing in her ears and mixing with her magic and her emotions and she can just make out Henry jumping up and down in the corner of her vision. Eric’s also got a hand on his back. 

“Did you do this?” Will whispers, not quite able to get his voice entirely quiet. Emma shrugs, still not able to look away from Killian, but she can hear Will’s scoff and mumbled _thank you_ and Belle is beaming when the veil is pulled away from her eyes. 

Will offers her his arm. 

Killian winks at Emma. 

He tries, at least. 

“No quite,” she mouths, and his lips twitch. He widens his eyes again, another round of impossibly maneuvered eyebrows, taking a step back to Will’s side of the altar. There’d been several discussions about where he was going to stand.

Emma hardly hears the start of the ceremony, eyes falling to Killian’s mouth because his lips are moving and her magic is still racing through her and it takes a moment to realize what he’s said.

“I love you.”  
  
She turns the iPod off and Will’s hand finds Belle’s as soon as they turn back towards the altar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	27. Chapter 27

Emma needs to come up with another word. 

She can’t. 

All she can think about is fluttering. The letters bounce around Emma’s brain, ricochet off the inside of her skull and, possibly, the inside of her soul, which is a little weird, all things considered, but she’s also having a hard time paying attention to the wedding happening in front of her and Killian will not stop staring. 

At her. Directly. Like he can also feel the fluttering in her soul. 

On second thought, that’s probably just her magic. 

And, maybe, on third thought, it’s something entirely different and wholly life-changing thing, but this is still not the moment and her eyes dart to her right. 

One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up. 

Emma lets out a quick breath, not quite a hiss because that would be distracting to everyone who is, in fact, watching the wedding, but it’s close. Her teeth press together, a burst of oxygen that barely makes its way through them, and Killian is legitimately smirking at her now. 

It’s not fair. 

It inspires more fluttering. 

He licks his lips, tongue flashing quick enough that, for half a second, Emma is certain she imagined the whole thing, but then she realizes he’s doing it on purpose and maybe she won’t ever get to the moment at all. She’s going to kill him first. For teasing her.

During someone else’s wedding. 

She takes another deep breath, a sharp inhale through her nose that leaves Ruby staring and Regina glaring, and Killian’s eyes might be getting bluer. Maybe it has something to do with that jacket. It’s ridiculous. She can just make out patterns stitched into the leather, bits of red on the collar that match the vest he’s wearing, the cut of which is probably meant to tease her as well. 

That one dark corner two hallways over could work pretty well. For the moment. Or just to yank on the charms that hang around Killian’s neck, and Emma is only a little annoyed when her magic spikes. 

Killian’s eyebrows leap up his forehead, disappearing behind hair that can’t be doing that naturally. It falls gracefully, coming dangerously close to his eyes and that only leaves Emma staring at his eyes and the whole thing is a vicious cycle that isn’t really all that vicious. 

“Stop that,” he mouths, but there’s no real command in it. He’s not actually saying words. 

Emma narrows her eyes. She can’t respond. She’s going to get yelled at. She’s not sure by who, but she’s certain it’ll be someone and this minister, bishop, _religious figure of some sort_ is talking. She’s not listening. 

Killian purses his lips when Emma’s magic doesn’t calm down. It flutters. Still. Constantly. Possibly for the next several months. 

_Gods_. 

And while his gaze doesn’t ever actually pull away from her, it does shift every so often, tracing across her face and the slope of her shoulders, an intensity to it that leaves Emma’s skin buzzing and her magic...fluttering and Gods, he keeps moving his eyes across her dress.

They’re all wearing white, a slightly different shade than Belle’s and Emma had been curious about that, but then she’d put the dress on and Killian keeps doing that thing with his face and, now, she’s very grateful to be wearing this very specific dress at this exact moment.

Everything about her current train of thought is ridiculous.

Well, maybe not all of it. The wedding is pretty nice. 

That’s not a good set of words either. It’s better than pretty and nicer than nice, flowers hanging from the ceiling and color everywhere, sunlight streaming through stained glass windows and painting the floor and the fabric of everyone’s dresses. 

The white makes sense now. 

It’s beautiful. That’s a better word. And Emma’s been to her fair share of royal weddings, each one more ostentatious than the last, like they’re competing for a title that only married couples can obtain, but this wedding and these people, who’ve settled into brand-new lives, seem to have found something better. 

It’s not royal, but it’s, maybe, more meaningful. Will’s thumb keeps brushing over the back of Belle’s wrist, hands twisted behind their back so the minister won’t see. 

Jealous joins the fluttering, _again_ , a twist that makes it hard to see straight, but then Emma’s eyes meet Killian’s and his expression hasn’t changed. 

He tilts his head slightly, lips parted so she can see the tip of his tongue swipe the front of his teeth. It takes everything in her to keep her knees from buckling. 

“Fine,” she says. She doesn’t really say it. She doesn't want to get in trouble. Killian doesn’t look convinced. So Emma does the only thing she can think of. 

She focuses on her magic, funnels it so it pushes from the tips of her fingers and moves down each strand of hair, a warmth that wasn’t there a few minutes before. She breathes deeply, and she can’t actually see the magic move across the aisle, but she can tell the exact moment it reaches Killian. 

His head snaps up, jaw tensing and eyes widening to a size that is absolutely going to earn them both reprimands.

Like children. 

Who flirt. Constantly. At other people’s weddings. 

Emma grins. 

She doesn’t stop, fingers twisting and twitching at her side, moving the air around her until she’s certain every single particle is full of her magic. Killian’s chest heaves, makes the charms hanging there shift and she’s not all that opposed to this particular stare. 

If only because this particular stare is somewhere between amazed and a little overwhelmed and he appears to be breathing through his mouth. She’s going to spend the rest of her life studying the color-changing properties of his eyes. 

The minister is still talking. 

“To understand the love that Will Scarlet and Belle French share, is simply to watch them,” he says, and Emma mouth goes dry. Gods, she hopes she doesn’t cry. The moment hasn’t happened yet. She can’t blame anything except her own romantic tendencies. “They are a pair who do not only challenge each other to be the best versions of themselves, but love each other in spite of those moments when they are not.”

Emma sighs. Mary Margaret sniffles. And Killian hasn’t blinked in days. At least. 

He licks his lips again. Emma doesn’t think that’s on purpose. 

“They aren’t two sides of the same coin,” the minister continues, “for that would suggest that they are, in fact, the same. Will and Belle are different, opposites in a way that compliment each other, that finds a happy medium and a quiet contentment in the contrast.”  
  
“Is this a good thing?” Will mumbles, and Belle, finally, has a free hand. It flies to her mouth, trying to smother the laugh she can’t keep entirely contained. 

Mary Margaret’s sniffle is getting louder every time.   
  
“This is very existential,” Emma mutters. She leans back, Ruby hooking her chin over her shoulder and that was probably a mistake. Ruby is very clearly breathing. 

“Gods, you are a disaster. It’s so obvious.”  
  
“Stop sniffing me.”   
  
“I’m serious, Em,” Ruby whispers, twisting her head until her lips are dangerously close to Emma’s neck and this is not how she expected these next few moments to go. “And if the pirate stares at you any harder, you’re going to turn to stone or something.”   
  
“That’s a misplaced joke.”   
  
“Shut up,” Regina fumes, and she never really mastered the art of whispering. Ruby’s whole body shakes against Emma’s back. 

Belle hasn’t moved her hand. It makes it difficult to understand her when she starts speaking as well. “Ruby if you mess up my bouquet, doing whatever it is you’re doing to Emma’s neck, I’m going to make sure you don’t get a single dark corner to yourself tonight. Got it?”  
  
It takes some twisting for Ruby to actually salute, but then her hand is moving and Emma’s eyes roll towards the ceiling, timing up with Regina’s groan and Ariel’s laugh and Killian’s gaze has gone more than a little suspicious. 

The minister chuckles. Loudly. He throws his head back, an arm wrapped around his stomach like that will help him maintain his center of gravity and Emma’s head snaps back towards Killian’s like there are magnets involved.   
  
Magic, at least. 

He reaches behind his ear to tug at the hair there. And she’s not sure what any of her internal organs do at _that_ , but it kind of feels like they’re combusting and expanding at the same time, a push and pull that’s almost comfortable because she hasn’t seen that particular tell in a very long time and now she’s the one doing the pointed staring. 

She gapes at him, any sense of jealousy disappearing into something more akin to joy and it’s like she’s fallen backwards – straight into memories and past moments that will help set up this moment and he looks at her the same way. 

Like she’s the sun and the North Star and the one thing that keeps him centered. 

He doesn’t blink, holds her gaze and looks impossibly young, a sudden lightness that doesn’t match up with the obvious weight of the jacket he’s wearing and Emma’s going to enjoy pushing that same jacket on the floor later. 

She’s not all that particular about which floor. 

“Oh, that is the best thing there is, Will,” the minister says, answering a question Emma forgot about entirely, far too preoccupied with her thoughts regarding coats and eye color. “Love should not be a quest to find our duplicate. That’s an impossibility, even in a world like ours.”  
  
Emma’s magic does something, as if it’s aware it’s being talked about. She can see every one of the muscles in Killian’s throat move when he swallows. 

And the minister isn’t done. 

“Love is more than that. Because love is a magic that is far stronger than anything else in this realm.” Emma doesn’t think she imagines the way he glances towards her, looking down to make sure she actually hasn’t lit up. She hasn’t. They’re not in an actual church, but she’ll take the miracles when she can get them. 

“It’s an understanding,” he adds, turning back towards Will and Belle and Will’s thumb is moving quicker now, “It’s belief. And growth. It’s mistakes and miscues and moving on from both of them, finding someone who will walk that same path with you, no matter what may be in the road. Most of all, it is understanding. It’s support without being blind. Love, of the truest kind, is give and take, a foundation on which to build everything else. And that’s what I see here.” 

The minster looks out on the rest of the hall, and Emma didn’t realize she was holding her breath until it flies out of her. He smiles, soft and almost benevolent, a little too _religious_ for her liking, but she supposes it’s also a wedding and--

“Will and Belle are not the same person, but they are people who have found something in each other,” he says. “Who have found happiness. And, today, we celebrate that happiness. We celebrate the journey that they will take. So,” he smiles again, a dramatic pause that feels a little heavy-handed at this point. Will pulls his lips behind his teeth. Belle lets her head rest on his shoulder. “Today, we bring together Will Scarlet and Belle French, we watch them commit their lives to each other and that same happiness they’ve found. And we encourage them to remember this moment, to cling to it when the shadows fall, because they will come, challenges that they’ll contend with together, remembering that they are not the same, but pieces of a similar puzzle, compliments to each other and a pair who deserve this. The moment.”

Another dramatic pause. 

And Emma seizes it, more magic moving from her fingertips and, maybe, out of the heel of her shoe, flying from her toes and drifting across space, reaching up to curl around the fingers hanging at Killian’s side. 

He smiles. 

“Can I kiss her yet?” Will asks slyly, and Mary Margaret is not the only one who makes noise at that. Emma’s laugh rattles out of her, watery and a little shaky, tears blurring her vision, while Ruby’s soft exhale tickles the skin at the back of her neck. 

The minister nods. “Yes, you can absolutely kiss her, but I should probably--”

He barely gets the words out before Will is moving, Belle’s laugh ricocheting off the windows and those beams of light that are still pouring through the panes. She slings her arms around Will’s neck, back arching when he actually dips her, a hand flat against her dress and the other cupping her head, lips pressed together with enough joy radiating in the air around them that Emma is certain she can actually taste it. 

They don’t stop kissing each other. 

They break apart, only to move closer together, hands tracing over skin and clothing in equal measure, laughter working its way into the space between kisses. Breathing is, apparently, overrated, anyway. 

Emma is a little worried about the state of Belle’s spine. 

“Hey, maybe he was right,” Ruby muses, “he and Belle are definitely going to be supreme couple at this wedding. Good for them.”  
  
Emma scoffs. “It’s their wedding,”   
  
“Yeah, but you’ve got a very particular scent to you, Em and--”   
  
“--Are they actually married?” Mary Margaret asks. “Because we said _the moment_ and there’s kissing, but…” She trails off, shrugging slightly. Will and Belle must have magical lungs. 

The minister laughs again, a quick nod and dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh, yes, yes, I suppose we should make it official, don’t you think?”  
  
“We’re all big fans of official,” David says. Emma resists the urge to glare at him. She’s fairly certain some of the meaning behind those words is meant for her. 

“Of course, your highness. Uh--” He coughs slightly, and it does not work. Emma didn’t expect it to. Killian mumbles something under his breath, a curse that doesn’t sound particularly like English and might actually be something Emma heard Ariel use before, leaning forward to curl his fingers around Will’s shoulder. 

He tugs. Hard. 

“Holy fu--” Will growls. “What?”  
  
Killian nods, the minister blushing a bit now and they really are the least traditional royal family in the history of Misthaven. “Oh, right,” Belle mutters, clicking her teeth when she ducks her gaze towards her shoes. “Sorry, that was--”   
  
“--Way too long to be even remotely comfortable?” Killian suggests. Belle kicks at his shins. 

“No dark corners for you either! And I know--”  
  
“--Oh my God,” David groans, and several people in the aisles laugh very loudly. It may just be Eric and Henry. And possibly Bash, but he’s also a child and laughs at anything he finds particularly amusing.

“Man and wife, right?” Mary Margaret asks. “That’s how it works.”

The minister is still blushing, but he also looks kind of amused and as far as moments go, even if it’s not the one Emma’s hoping to get eventually, this one is pretty goddamn enjoyable. Killian’s fingers are still bent. Like he’s trying to hold onto her magic. 

Or her. She’s still not going to be specific. 

“That’s absolutely right,” the minister smiles. He turns back towards Belle and Will, both of them looking a little nervous and not even remotely embarrassed. “I now pronounce you man and wife. We kind of already did the kissing, but--”

He doesn’t finish that sentence either. There’s more kissing. And a few whistles.

Emma taps her thumb on the iPod again. 

That actually gets them to stop kissing for a moment because--”Is that the Four Seasons?” Will asks, laughter coloring every word and Belle’s smile stretches across her face when she curls against his side. 

Emma shakes her head. “Technically it’s just Frankie Valli.”  
  
“Technically?”   
  
“It’s Mary Margaret’s iPod.”   
  
“It’s definitely just Frankie Valli,” Mary Margaret confirms, and Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat. 

“See. We win.”  
  
Will scoffs, but his arm tightens slightly and Emma doesn’t hear the footsteps moving towards her. She flinches when Killian’s hand grazes the ridges of her spine, tracing across each one of her vertebrae like he’s trying to make sure she’s actually there and it’d be insane if she dropped the iPod. 

She genuinely almost drops the iPod. 

“Yeah, yeah, you win,” Will grumbles, a distinct lack of frustration in his voice. “Alright, so, uh--”  
  
“--You walk down the aisle now, Scarlet,” Ariel says. Bash is clinging to her side, a sudden appearance that Emma didn’t even notice and Ariel rolls her eyes before any of them can ask how that happened. 

He salutes as well. 

They’ve circled back around to ridiculous. 

“C’mon,” Belle says, looping her arm through Will’s and tugging slightly. “Let’s see if we can scandalize anyone while they all come into the next hall.”

Ruby cackles. Mary Margaret has to use David to stay upright. And Will may actually sprint down the aisle, hardly landing one step before he’s moving onto the next, flowers thrown and doors flung open and Killian’s fingers are warm when they lace with Emma’s. 

* * *

“You are getting awfully handsy, Lieutenant.”

He actually looks surprised. It’s not a bad look, even if Emma knows that he’s only doing it to continue teasing her, but none of the looks are ever bad and the fluttering gets stronger. More intense. Supreme fluttering.   
  
“I’m not sure what it is you’re suggesting, your highness,” Killian mutters, but that doesn’t ring exactly honest, particularly when he nudges her further into the corner of a different hall with more flowers, a low hum of people who all appear to be riding several waves of particularly strong romance. 

Emma hopes that’s a theme for the rest of the day. 

“Please,” she grumbles. That only makes his expression change slightly, surprise turning into incredulity and something drifting dangerously close to...dangerous. In a flirting, handsy, scandalize several reigning monarchs of a few different kingdoms kind of way. 

“That’s still not an answer, darling.”

“Running the gamut of nicknames, huh?”  
  
“The first one was your title. That hardly counts.”   
  
“And the second one?”   
  
“An endearment,” Killian says, dropping his head and Emma’s whole body shivers when his teeth graze the curve of her jaw. He chuckles. 

“Asshole.”  
  
“Ah, I believe you’re missing the point there, love.”   
  
Emma makes a low noise in the back of her throat, letting her head loll back against a wall she didn’t realize was there until just now. Killian grins, that flash in his gaze making her magic shoot through every inch of her and she’s absolutely going to count whatever his eyes do at that as a victory. Of the romantic variety. 

Maybe this is the moment. 

It’s not a bad moment. 

It’d be a better moment with more kissing. And less people, music that Henry must have picked because, at some point, between walking down the aisle and closing the doors of another hall behind them, he had claimed he was going to be in charge of the songs. It sounds like he’s playing boy bands from the 90s. 

Maybe this isn’t the moment. 

She doesn’t remember moving her hands, palms flat on Killian’s chest when he rocks into her space, a quick bump of his hips against hers that leaves Emma biting back more misplaced sounds and she’s completely lost control of her magic.

“Tease,” Killian mutters. His hand has shifted too, dropping to the curve of her hip, thumb brushing over the front of her dress and Emma’s had magical surges before, but never exactly like this. 

As if she could combust right there. 

“That’s rude.”  
  
He groans, but the sound is very close to a growl and Emma focuses her magic. It’s not perfect, not quite as exact as it had been a few minutes before, but she’s going to blame his tongue and this very particular shade of blue in his eyes and Killian’s whole chest moves when he exhales. 

“What are you trying to do, exactly?”  
  
“I really think we’re going in circles here.”   
  
“Your magic has been--” Killian inhales sharply, a quick shake of his head like he can’t quite believe what it’s about to say. “As strong as I’ve ever felt it. The last few days...it’s, well, it’s all I can do to think straight.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”  
  
He smiles, barely moving his head when he nods. It seems unfair that his hair moves anyway. “It is. Distracting, honestly, but, uh---” Emma’s teeth find her lower lip when he rocks between his feet, hook coming up to brush behind his ear. Again. She’s absolutely counting.   
  
“Ever?”   
  
“Ever,” he echoes. “Like there’s...like there’s more of it.”

Emma can feel her eyes widen, and she hasn’t had to worry about the size of her tongue in a very long time, but she’s certain she can feel it expand right there, making it difficult to keep her mouth closed and her breathing even. 

Her jaw aches. She can’t bring herself to loosen it. 

It’s definitely the Backstreet Boys in the background. Anna keeps shouting questions. And just shouting. Elsa and Ariel may actually be dancing. 

“Swan,” Killian says, a hint of worry in his voice that makes her stomach twist. “C’mon, love. Why the magic? And why the teasing during the wedding? That wasn’t playing fair at all.”

“Are you kidding me?”  
  
Killian laughs again, the sound pressed into the curve of Emma’s neck. “You keep asking these questions and I’m not sure I entirely understand them, Swan.”   
  
“What’s that one, then?” He hums in confusion, nosing at her skin and nipping at the shell of her ear and it would probably ruin the wedding if she did, in fact, just die right there. His thumb drifts closer to her stomach. “Is Swan a nickname or an endearment or--”   
  
The rest of the words get caught on her lips. They hang on the tip of her tongue and the minimal amount of space between them, her fingers reaching up to curl around the charms she’d been thinking about before and this may be the least surprising part of the conversation. 

It’s like someone flipped a switch, so sudden she can barely catch her breath before Killian’s mouth crashes onto hers, hand leaving her side to cup her cheek She jerks back, which only serves to press most of her body into Killian’s, and one of them probably makes a louder noise.

She’s not sure which one. 

It does not matter. 

Killian’s thumb presses into her cheek, fingers curling around the back of her neck and pushing into her hair. And the switch flips again. It’s even quicker that time, heady and desperate evolving into something closer to reverent and adoring and she’s got to go back to school or something so she can come up with more appropriate adjectives in times like this. 

He pulls away, fingers moving like he can’t stop himself from touching her and she’s not going to argue that. Ever. Gods, he knew her magic was going haywire. 

She definitely makes the noise that time. 

Emma presses up on her toes, and it’s difficult to think when she can feel how his nose scrunches against her face, but then there’s tongue and open mouths and she’s got to sling an arm around his shoulders if only to try and keep her balance. 

“Cheater, cheater,” he mumbles, letting his forehead rest against hers. 

“I don’t like pumpkin at all.”  
  
“Misplaced idioms, love.”   
  
“Yuh huh,” Emma laughs. She doesn’t know how many small victories she’s at now, but the look he gives her when she scratches at the back of his hair is like conquering several nations or something less violent. That’s inappropriate at wedding. “And this is absolutely your fault too. You can’t seem to stop touching me.”

He hums, gaze going slightly darker in a way that sends a thrill up and down Emma’s spine. “Have you seen this dress?”  
  
“I’m wearing it.”   
  
“Swan.”   
  
“What? That’s a legitimate question and you’re still keeping secret plans and--”   
  
“--Your magic is distracting,” Killian cuts in, not quite sharp, but a sound that makes Emma know he suspects something and they’re dancing around several possibilities without even acknowledging that NSYNC was a superior band to the Backstreet Boys. “And Swan, the dress is...you look…”   
  
“I know, right?”   
  
“Why aren’t you kissing me, again?”   
  
All things considered, complete and utter joy is a rather magnificent feeling. It’s warm and content and makes the magic that rushes under Emma’s skin turn to a low simmer, a buzz and a burst of energy and she thinks _this_ particular shade of blue is somewhere closer to cornflower. 

Softer. Calmer. _Ever_. 

“Demanding,” she mutters, and she can’t make it sound like the insult it absolutely isn’t. Killian tries to wink. “Gods, you are so bad at that,” Emma laughs. Her body shakes against his, nearly standing on top of his shoes. “And what was this I heard about every single dance? You’re not living up to your suave reputation, pirate.”  
  
Midnight blue. Sharper. Intense. Still ever. As in happily. 

“I think prefer dashing rapscallion, actually. Rolls off the tongue better.”

“Far too confident in your own humor.”  
  
“And getting you to smile, aye.”   
  
There are footsteps coming towards them and Emma knew they were on borrowed time, this corner not nearly dark enough for her to actually get the moment she wants, but her laugh nearly drowns out the sounds and she arches her back when Killian’s hook finds its way between her and the wall. 

“This is the last time I’m ever going to do this, do you two understand?” Ruby announces, hands on her hips when Emma glances over Killian’s shoulder. He doesn’t turn around. “Like. No more. I’m not doing the interrupting thing for the rest of our lives.”  
  
“No one suggested you come over here, Lady Lucas.”   
  
She bares her teeth. “Incorrect. Because you two have wedding obligations and the pirate--”   
  
“--Rubes,” Emma chastises, but that’s another losing battle and she’s got to stop thinking in military terms. 

“The pirate is, somehow, the best man and the maid of honor and apparently there are toasts to be made and speeches and also,” she scrunches her nose, “Robin Hood would very much like to meet both of you.”

Emma refuses to be blamed for whatever noise she makes. She feels a little drunk already. She’s not sure what she’s going to do when there are toasts to be made. As it is, she’s more than content to let her head fall forward, crashing into a chest that is also shaking with laughter and Killian’s arm tightens. 

He kisses the top of her hair. 

“Did she say it with a straight face?”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “Not even close.”   
  
“Does this mean we get to meet her girlfriend?” He twists, bringing Emma with him and she doesn’t try to pull herself away from him. “Did she bring her little dog too?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re an asshole?” Ruby snaps. 

“Swan, like, a few minutes before you got here.”  
  
“What? Really?” Killian hums, Ruby’s eyebrows pulling low and Emma’s magic jumps. It makes her left knee buckle. She’s going to curse all of them to have less judgmental eyebrows. “Oh, huh,” Ruby adds with a shrug, “well, that’s one way to do it, I suppose. Also, I’d just like to point out, for the record or whatever--”   
  
“--Hook,” Ariel calls from the other side of the room. “We’re going to toast to love and happiness and all that, so, uh...if you want to pull yourself out of that dark corner, then maybe we can actually drink whatever Kristoff brought.”   
  
Killian groans. “Gods, if Kritoff brought it we may all die before we get to the dancing, Swan.”   
  
“Shouldn’t have spent so much time talking about my magic, then.”

Ruby freezes. Emma ignores that. She tries, at least. It doesn’t work. Particularly when Ruby moves again. So she can laugh. Uproariously. “Ariel stole my point and I think it’s very unfair because I was totally going to shove the fact that you are, in fact, Captain Hook in your face, but you’re very busy flirting with your girlfriend, aren’t you, Jones? Your girlfriend.”  
  
“Thank you, Lady Lucas.”   
  
Ariel yells for them again, brandishing a bottle as if that will get them to move quicker. “Tick tock, tick tock, Hook.”   
  
Emma laughs that time. So does David. They might have moved on to New Kids on the Block. Mary Margaret’s going to have to explain her iPod library. “That’s a joke,” David shouts, and Killian nods petulantly. “Did you get the joke?”   
  
“Your fiancé has horrible taste in music,” Emma argues. “Henry, you’ve got to play something better than this.”   
  
“Freebird,” Will says, voice not quite even and it appears he’s already gotten into whatever Kristoff has brought. 

“I don’t have that,” Mary Margaret mutters. “No one actually likes that song.”  
  
Emma snickers. “It’s a bold claim, M’s, but I suppose someone had to say it. Can we get out of the 90s though, Henry? Honestly?”   
  
Henry winks better than Killian, a flash of a grin and suddenly determined expression as if picking the next song will be the most important thing he’s ever done. It takes a few moments, the hum in the hall getting louder and Killian’s fingers find Emma’s again when they start walking towards a table with an almost comical number of glasses artfully piled on top. 

The music starts. 

“Is this--” Emma mutters, Will already singing and Belle bobbing on the balls of her feet and her breath hitches when she hears Killian in her ear. His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, and it probably shouldn’t be romantic to be serenaded by _Uptown Girl_ , but that may just be the life they’re living and the contingent from DunBroch seems to really enjoy Billy Joel. 

“Why do you know all the words to this?” she asks, leaning back against his chest. It’s easy to feel his smile against her cheek. 

“I think that means your impressed.”  
  
“Curious, at least.”

He doesn’t answer, just keeps barely singing lyrics while his fingers trace patterns on her dress. She might be swooning a little bit. Kristoff starts pouring drinks, explaining _not to chug this, seriously_ and there’s a general nod of agreement and understanding and--

Emma almost jumps when she feels Mary Margaret’s fingers against the back of her wrist. 

She takes the cup out of her hand, a quick switch that Emma hopes no one sees. And chugs it. Immediately. 

“Oh shit,” Mary Margaret breathes, Emma biting on her lip to stop herself from making noise. It doesn’t matter. Both Belle and Elsa do. They gasp. 

Ruby may actually giggle. The woman next to her looks a little confused. 

Killian doesn’t notice. That may be the biggest victory so far. 

“To Belle and Will,” he says, “that always feel like they’re drunk on Arendelle, what is this?”  
  
“Wine, actually,” Kristoff answers. “Just, you know...strong.”   
  
“Right, right, right, well, here’s hoping they always feel pleasantly buzzed and--”   
  
“--This is not the best, Hook,” Ariel grumbles, already taking a sip. 

“Stop that, Fisk. To Belle and Will,” he repeats. “That they always feel like this, happy and a bit like they’re walking on air and that they don’t kick anyone else out of an apartment so that they can do unquestionable things on every surface.”  
  
Belle scowls. Kind of. She’s also very clearly drunk. “You know, if you want to get technical, us kicking you out of the apartment is how you found Emma in the hallway, so--”

“You’re welcome,” Will shouts. “It was us all along. The true heroes of the story.”  
  
“Or at least something coming full circle.”   
  
Killian nods, one side of his mouth pulling up. “Something like that,” he concedes. “Alright, to you guys. And your unneighborly ways. And romance.”

“To romance,” the group of them echo and every one of them gags as soon as they drink the Arendelle wine. 

* * *

Robin Hood is, in fact, a pretty good dude. 

He smiles and laughs, makes a face when forced to drink the Arendelle wine because--”That’ll show you’re part of the group,” David reasons, but David also may be a little drunk now and it probably hurts when Regina rolls her eyes into the back of her skull. 

She sticks her entire tongue out after she takes a sip. 

“Gods,” Regina groans, curling over the arm that hasn’t moved from her waist since she and Robin left the dance floor. She and Robin were dancing. “That is atrocious.”

“We think it’s a requirement,” Ariel reasons. Bash has long fallen asleep, whisked away by a woman with a kind smile and Eric looks a little unsteady on his feet now. “Isn’t that right, Elsa? Royal decree of the alcohol of Arendelle?”  
  
Elsa scowls. “That is not how it works. And--” she adds, falling forward slightly until Killian catches her around the wrist with his hook. “--whatever Lancelot and Guinevere brought is ten-thousand times worse. Gods, are we still playing Billy Joel?”

“Scarlet demanded it,” Killian grins. He’s got his head resting on the side of Emma’s, enough that she’s certain she can feel the way his mouth moves even through her hair, but that might be wishful thinking and Mary Margaret is starting to look a little green. 

She keeps tugging cups out of Emma’s hand without asking. 

It’s very nice. 

It’s slightly ridiculous. 

That’s also a theme.

Gods, she wants to dance. 

“I did not do anything like that,” Will growls, most of the venom disappearing because he’s still smiling. He’s lost his jacket at some point, a color to his cheeks that doesn’t seem like it’ll fade any time soon and joy, it appears, is catching. “Els, did you really try that stuff Lancelot brought? I think it had a warning label on it.”  
  
“And they brought that to a wedding?” David balks. “Should we be concerned by that?”   
  
“I don’t think that’s a sign of open war,” Robin reasons. “He seemed like--”   
  
“--Please say a good dude,” Emma whispers, fully expecting the narrow-eyed look she gets from Will. “You’re still smiling, Scarlet, you can’t be all that insulted.”   
  
“It is my wedding day.”   
  
“We should have gotten that on a sign,’ Belle says. She’s also lost her shoes, wandering around the hall barefoot with the force of several suns in her smile and Will lets his head loll back as soon as she wraps an arm around his middle. “Hey, babe.”   
  
“Oh hi, wife.”   
  
“How long is this going to last?” David groans. They are all really horrible at making their words sound frustrated. Emma supposes joy will do that to people. She curls her fingers around Killian’s hook, Billy Joel still playing loudly with magic that she can’t entirely temper yet and--

Anna’s hand flies to her face. “Look at that,” she hisses, stabbing a free finger into the air and everyone of them turns in tandem. 

David curses. Killian tenses. Will nearly falls over. 

“Well, no wonder we’ve been dancing like we’re a wedding on Long Island,” Belle laughs. “Our DJ is distracted.”

They’re all staring. It’s obvious. In a parental, extended family with enough magic and full circles to fuel several sweeping epics, kind of way. Henry doesn’t notice -- far too preoccupied with the person in front of him, a girl that looks about his age and, if the style of her dress is any indication, is also from Camelot. 

They’re crowded close together, heads bent and smiles barely visible. Henry’s hand keeps flexing at his side. 

Mary Margaret has started to cry again. “What?” she challenges when Ruby gapes at her. “I am so drunk. It is--it’s honestly absurd how drunk I am.”

“Yeah, ok,” Ruby agrees. “That’s fair. But, uh---what was it you were saying about signs of open war, Robin Hood?”  
  
Regina’s eyes are going to get stuck that way. “You do not need to use his title every time.”   
  
“Oh, but it’s so much more fun that way.”   
  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Anna stutters, waving both hands now. “Look, they’re moving!”

“Is this weird that we’re doing this?” Elsa asks. Anna waves both hands again. Not at the same time. “I think that means it’s weird.”  
  
“Please,” Will scoffs. “Killian and Emma are like Henry’s parents and--” His eyes bug, darting between Emma and Killian and back again, before shifting towards an unable-to-stand-on-her own Mary Margaret, lips parting with an almost audible pop while Belle does her best not to laugh too loudly. “Parents,” he repeats. “That’s--” 

Mary Margaret really does her best to glare. It’s not great. 

“I think he just asked her to dance,” David says, and Emma isn’t sure if it’s actually a distraction or just years of experience, but she’s going to have to do something for both him and Mary Margaret. Once she sobers up. 

None of them move. None of them blink. They watch Henry take a few unsteady steps forward, the Camelot girl trailing close behind and--

“Oh shit,” Ruby says, Dorothy laughing next to her. The Camelot girl grabs Henry’s hand. He snaps his head around, visibly stunned and even more obviously nervous and Killian grumbles under his breath. 

“What?” Emma asks, chancing a glance up. It’s a mistake as soon as her gaze meets his, a look she hasn’t seen, maybe, ever, but is quickly coming to love more than just about anything else. He kisses between her eyebrows. 

“He’s stealing all my moves.”  
  
She can’t say what again. Her tongue is way too big. It’s gross. 

And she’s way too distracted anyway -- by the music, somehow, still goddamn Billy Joel, but slower and getting closer to almost romantic and Killian’s fingers are warm when they curl around hers. He bows. 

Ridiculous. Ridiculous. _Perfect_. 

This may be the moment. Or getting there. Full circle.

“Your highness,” he mumbles, brushing the words over the bend of her knuckles. Emma swallows, hoping that does something to help her magic, but she’s not really a great field general or however the metaphor should work, and it’s even harder when she sees one side of Killian’s mouth tug up. 

“Lieutenant.”  
  
He nips at the back of her palm, looking up from underneath eyelashes that may be half the reason her magic is doing whatever it’s doing. “I think we’ve wasted more than enough time, don’t you?”   
  
“Ah, that’s rude,” Will mutters, Ariel stepping on his foot. “Also, I think it’s really unfair that David isn’t making comments on this. It’s not your wedding yet.”   
  
Killian’s eyes flash, another kiss to Emma’s hand and part of her brain does, actually, pick up on that. The rest of it is short-circuiting. 

“If you’d do me the honor, ma’am.”

Emma nods. She thinks. Her hair shifts though and she’s passably familiar with the properties of gravity and something about Isaac Newton. “It’d be a pleasure,” she breathes, any thought of seventeenth-century scientists disappearing as soon as Killian pulls her towards the dance floor. 

* * *

She’d been ready to make fun of him for the _walking on air_ comment before, but the longer they spend on that dance floor, Killian’s hand on her waist and Emma’s fingers wrapped around his hook, the more it starts to make sense. 

She doesn’t feel like they’re moving, really, more like gliding and drifting, occupying the same few inches of space like they’re each trying to orbit the other. He spins her, laughter ringing out around them and it takes Emma a few moments to realize -- it’s coming from her. 

The muscles in her face threaten to get stuck, frozen in permanent happiness and, she supposes, that’s not that bad. She supposes, _hopes_ , maybe after everything, they both deserve this. 

Her breath catches when Killian pulls her back, a low chuckle in her ear. “Oh, don’t sound so smug,” Emma mutters, and she’s got to get him out of this jacket at some point. 

“I’m not sounding like anything, Swan. I’m having fun. Are you not enjoying yourself?”  
  
Emma clicks her tongue, tilting her head up and the smile she’s met with is equal parts disarming and the only thing she ever wants to see again. She reaches up, brushing a few wayward strands of hair away from his brows and Killian’s eyes shut, an ease and a calm and she can’t imagine how they’re still moving. 

Dancing. 

Finally. 

“I never said that,” Emma argues. “I was only pointing out that you are looking a little pleased with yourself and _I told you so_ is not exactly attractive when I’m trying to figure out all the ways to get you into less clothing.”

It’s cheating. She knows it. Killian knows it. Several members of a variety of different royal families know it. She says it anyway, because it garners exactly the reaction she’s looking for -- as if he’s stunned and surprised, again. 

Emma drinks it in, relishes every shift and every line, the crinkles around his eyes and the slight curl to his lips when he looks at her. Killian doesn’t blink, like that will snap them out of whatever they’ve fallen into and the music gets louder. 

And the kiss she gets out of it is in the realm of searing, a hook pressed into her back and hips flush against hers. 

“The magic, Swan,” he mutters, pulling her closer. She should tell him. She doesn’t. She presses her cheek into his shoulder, breathes deeply and tries to let _this_ sink into every inch of her. 

“Is it going to be weird if I tell you that you also look pretty incredible?” 

Killian breathes out a laugh, and he must shake his head because she can feel his chin brush over the top of her hair. “No, that wouldn’t be weird. Although I was pretty certain of it when you started flirting during the ceremony.”  
  
“That wasn’t flirting.”   
  
“No?”   
  
Emma sighs, another noise she refuses to take responsibility for when they spin again. It’s all she can do to keep her balance, holding on to him tightly and that was probably the point, but it’s a pretty good point and Killian doesn’t seem all that frustrated by it.

“Seemed like flirting,” he adds, still sounding far too smug. So, Emma reacts. Again. She doesn’t close her eyes, wants to see exactly what he does as soon as she does it, a pulse of magic that she’s surprised isn’t visible when it shakes out of her. 

“Hardly playing fair, love. And, incidentally, I wasn’t going to say anything close to rehashing my dance credentials.”  
  
“No?”   
  
“No,” Killian says, each letter sounding like a promise. “I believe what I’m trying to say, your highness, is that you appear to be a natural at this.”   
  
“Is this even a waltz?”   
  
“Take my compliment, Swan.”   
  
“Aye aye.”

He scoffs, a fondness to the sound, and they’d only stun a few people if Emma magic’ed them out of that hall. Maybe to some library stacks. “Should I repeat the bit about teasing?”  
  
“Only if you think it’s not a fact.”   
  
“That’s not fair either,” he says, straining on all four words. Emma grins. She pushes her fingers into his hair, light scratches at the back of his neck, and the sharp inhale he makes leaves her magic threatening to burst out of her veins. 

Killian hisses, head falling to her collarbone and that feels like a mark in Emma’s win column, but then there are also teeth involved and--”We need to get out of here,” he says, sounding a little desperate. She has to lick her lips. 

“Yeah, ok, that’s--”  
  
“--This is the plan, love,” Killian interrupts, eyes falling to the ends of her hair when they start to emit a faint glow. He catches her lips, not nearly long enough to be even remotely satisfying, but they’re sneaking out of another event and Emma’s head is spinning. “C’mon,” he adds, finding her hand, and _those_ words are laced with an excitement that she’ll think about for a very long time. And talk about longer. “I know a place.”

* * *

“Where are we going, exactly?” Killian doesn’t respond, just clicks his tongue and the horse they’ve, possibly, kidnapped breaks into a trot. “Seriously, did you steal this horse?”  
  
“Swan, give me some credit, love.”   
  
“That is not an answer.”   
  
“This is the best horse in this entire kingdom,” Killian says, Emma tightening her hold around his middle. “And I borrowed it. Without anyone noticing. We’ll bring it back.”   
  
“Probably.”   
  
“Absolutely,” he amends. She hums, not entirely convinced, and if she weren’t so preoccupied with her own plan and the possibility of moments, Emma would be embarrassed that she hadn’t realized where they were going. 

It is, she imagines, because it’s been so long since she’s been there. 

She never went back. Even after curses and True Love. She avoided it, pretended this place didn’t exist and these things were nothing more than wisps of memories and hints of nightmares and she can hear herself breathe heavier as soon as Killian slides off the horse. 

He offers her his hand. 

“I promise, love,” he says, not quite an explanation. She takes his hand anyway. Still warm. Because she’s always trusted him, believed and wanted, maybe more than she ever deserved, and it’s been the simplest thing in the world to do. 

From the very start.

No matter where they might be. 

_Every single time_. 

Even in the same goddamn field where he died. 

She takes a steadying breath, not expecting it to work, and her first step forward is disappointing. Emma wobbles slightly, weight falling between her toes and her heel, threatening to turn her ankle and Killian squeezes his hand. 

“Is this where you went?” she asks, voice dropping low and that’s also kind of embarrassing. Her throat feels like it’s shrinking though, every word a challenge as if they have to scratch their way out, but this place is--

She freezes. 

Killian’s hand tightens again. 

“How--” Emma breathes, eyes not able to land on one thing. Her gaze darts around so quickly, she’s briefly worried about the headache she’s going to give herself, but that thought only lasts as long as she can process the words, eyes moving again and--”How long has it been like this?”  
  
This is not the field they left behind. 

It’s not the field Rumplestilskin destroyed, no hint of darkness or death or anything except life. In its purest form. There are flowers everywhere, enough to rival any of the halls Belle could have decorated, colors that aren’t dulled by the moonlight above them, full trees and leaves that shift under a slight breeze. 

Emma isn’t sure if that’s because of her magic. 

Or--

“Holy shit,” she mutters, and Killian’s whole face changes, another switch and more joy and Emma’s feet leave the ground. She didn’t have to be worried about the ankle thing at all. 

Her arms find their way around him as soon as his wrap around her middle, and he doesn’t kiss her the way she expects. The way she wants. This is better. 

This is the moment. 

He holds her, tight enough that her lungs don’t all together appreciate it, but her heart wishes it were even closer, hopes for less space and more feelings, the light in his eyes reverberating through her entire goddamn soul until Emma is flush with emotion and magic in equal measure. 

She hopes she doesn’t cry. 

She blinks. 

And the tears land on her cheeks. 

“Damn.”

“Gods, I love you,” he says, kissing away the tears that suddenly won’t seem to stop. “That’s, I--with everything I’ve got, Emma.”  
  
“Cheater.”   
  
“I don’t like pumpkin either.”

Emma’s laugh is shaky, but that may be more to do with the lack of oxygen she’s getting at the moment. “But I don’t--” she starts, feet still hovering above the ground, “--How is this possible. I...how long has it been like this?”  
  
The tips of Killian’s ears go very red, very quickly. 

“Babe?”

“I don’t know if it was today, specifically, but this is the first time I've--” He shifts her weight, eyes falling towards the ring that’s moved over the front of her dress. She exhales. That’s not helpful at all. 

“Oh.”  
  
“It’s a rather depressing story, Swan. Which isn’t part of the plan, at all.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“No, I’d rather we steered well clear of that particular emotion.”

“Nautical pun.”

He hums, nosing at her cheek and her jaw and his arm must be tired. “When we were in Neverland,” Killian says, “and that magic wanted us to relive our worst memories, I--it wasn’t what you thought it was. At least not entirely. It was here, but it was…” He licks his lips, pulling his eyes back up and there’s no name for that color. Emma brushes her fingers across the scruff on his face, aimless patterns that make his breathing even out slightly. “I kept coming back, Swan. Not always because I wanted to. The Darkness, sometimes...it wanted a reminder, could feel me drifting and I’d end up here and I’d remember what happened and how much I--”  
  
“--I love you,” she cuts in, not sure if it’s right or fair, but it’s true and it always has been. 

“I know. And that’s why it kept bringing me here. It never wanted me to believe that, but...well, darkness is a funny thing, Swan. It creeps up in you and there’s got to be something to pull you back or it’ll consume you.”

Emma can’t bring herself to ask the question. She wants to. Desperately. Wants to hear the words and let them sink into the moment as well, but it also feels a little selfish and that’s probably not right and--

“It was always you, Swan. Every single time.”

She’s still crying. 

Still ridiculous. Still perfect. 

“But I’d come here and nothing was ever alive. It was as if everything good had been ripped away and then stuffed into me and I--” Killian sighs, eyes going glossy, “--When we came back, I kept thinking about it. What might have happened to this place after the Darkness was destroyed because this was…”  
  
“The power of True Love?” Emma suggest. 

He kisses the bridge of her nose. “Aye, exactly that. I came back once, before we left to find the Jolly, but it was exactly the same. Nothing. There was nothing here, like nothing had ever been here at all, even. And then we found Henry and I thought that might make a difference. Belief and what I--”

He keeps cutting himself off. Emma’s very selfish about sentence structure right now. 

“That didn’t work?” she asks, well aware it’s a silly question. Killian shrugs. “But that’s...I mean, how is that possible? Darkness was gone and we’re…”  
  
Maybe sentence structure is overrated. 

Killian smirks, a quirk of his eyebrows and lips that trail down the side of her neck. “My thought exactly,” he says. “This has been a rather involved plan, love.”

“Yeah?”

“Years, curses, bartering with a jeweler in Agrabah.”

Emma falls back to the ground. She’s surprised her jaw doesn’t land there as well. And Killian’s smirk gets stronger, the tip of his tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth. “Are you kidding me?” she demands, but he just keeps smiling, reaching into one of the pockets inside his jacket.

“It’s probably good I didn’t take the jacket off, huh?”  
  
“You are not funny.”   
  
“Hysterical,” he objects. “Although admittedly very late. I apologize for that, your highness.”

Emma scoffs, far too charmed by the whole thing. “What were you waiting for?”  
  
Killian’s smirk disappears, replaced by something serious and determined, a look she’s only seen a few times. The same look when she’d given him the sword and he promised to come back. He did. And so did she. 

It just took them a few tries. 

“I’d think about that day sometimes,” he says. “I’d come here and the Darkness would play tricks, try and change what I remembered. And it never really worked. I could remember it perfectly. Turning the corner and you were there, light in your fingers and hanging from your hair, and I could feel it. I knew--Gods, Emma I knew then. That you’d already worked your way into the center of everything, a brightness I wouldn't ever be able to recover from.”  
  
“That hasn’t always been a good thing.”   
  
“No,” Killian admits. “It hasn’t. And I won’t say that’s made it worth it. I would have--” He chuckles, brushing away more tears. “--I would have given up quite a bit of treasure if it meant we got a few moments uninterrupted. No crises, no prophecies, just...us.”

“We’re alone now.”  
  
“Aye, love, that was the point. This place, it’s--I took a step forward that day and my whole life changed, but you’re the one who found me, Swan. Over and over. Even when I didn’t want it.”   
  
“You were cursed.”   
  
“You’re really having a hard time taking compliments, aren’t you?” She laughs, tugging lightly on the charms around his neck. “I love you, Emma,” Killian continues, “and I have for as long as I could remember, even when I couldn't remember. And I wanted--well, I told you years ago that I would always be by your side, if you’d have me, and that’s never changed, love. I know there’s always going to be prophecy and some crises, but I am tired of waiting. I came here today and this was alive again and I--”

Emma curses. It’s not dignified. It’s not particularly royal. It’s certainly not romantic. 

Killian blinks. 

“Oh, I understand,” Emma gasps. Her teeth find her lower lip, realization bubbling in the pit of her stomach and working its way up her spine, mixing with magic and love and something else, something that needs words and confirmation and the petals around them move when the wind shifts again. 

“Swan, what--”  
  
“--I didn’t even need David’s thing.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Gods,” she exclaims, and she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Killian is still holding a ring. From Agrabah. That he’s had for years. “It was us. This is us. We did this.”   
  
"You’re speaking in tongues, love.”   
  
“No, no, that’s--oh, Gods, this is not the way this was supposed to work.” 

He blinks. And opens his mouth. Only to close it. More than once. He blinks again. “This? The field? Swan, I think that’s just magic and--”  
  
“--Exactly. That’s...that’s exactly it. It’s our magic.”

“Ours?”

Emma nods, enough fluttering that she’s a little worried it will make her buoyant at some point. “Yeah. Ours, it’s uh--” She’s never been good at words. She doesn’t think. She acts. She responds. She grabs Killian’s hand and places it on her stomach. His jaw drops. 

“Emma.”  
  
“It’s probably good we got to the plan. There might be a royal scandal otherwise.”   
  
Killian shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving where his hand rests and his thumb has started moving again. “How long have you known?”   
  
“I didn’t really. I, um...well, there were suspicions and my magic has been--”   
  
“--As strong as ever?”   
  
“Yeah,” she whispers. “And I, well, I might have had a plan too, but I wasn’t sure and then David had some charm and I got distracted trying to fix the iPod and--” Killian snorts, head falling to her shoulder. He’s going to dislocate his arm. That doesn’t seem to bother him either. “Anyway, I’m still pretty certain and now this is a thing. I think...I think it’s us, babe. True Love and a new start and probably something about life.”   
  
“The magic’s always very on the nose isn’t it?”   
  
“Yeah, exactly.”   
  
“You want to say it?”   
  
“Do you?” Emma challenges. “I haven’t heard any actual prop--”   
  
“--Will you marry me?” he asks, quick and earnest and she’s nodding almost immediately. 

“Yes.”

He kisses her. She kisses him. Obviously. 

And the ring fits, which is very likely a sign, but then Killian’s staring at her and it’s her turn or something less call and response. 

More emotion. 

Every emotion. 

She rests her hand on his chest again, magic under her touch, and Killian’s fingers grip the front of her gown. That makes it easier. 

“I’m pregnant.”

He lets out a sound unlike any Emma has ever heard. It rattles around in her, settles between her ribs and finds a rhythm with her pulse, a steady beat she’s going to think about every day for the rest of her life. 

And she barely has a chance to take a breath before his lips are back on hers, soft and not, all at the same time, an opposite that doesn’t make sense, but is everything she’s ever wanted, tied up in one perfect moment. 

Emma doesn’t know how long they stay there, but the moonlight never fades and she’s the one wearing the coat on by the time the first bird lands on the nearest branch, a piece of parchment tied to his leg. Killian chuckles, waving it off and--

“Just a few moments longer, love.”  
  
“Yeah, ok,” Emma nods, but they don’t go back to the castle, a burst of magic and the smell of salt, falling asleep tangled together with her head on his chest and his arm wrapped around her middle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's another finished story! Thank you so much for clicking and reading and commenting. On all the words I'm always shoving at the internet. I've got no idea if/when I'll post the other things I've written or what's coming next (aside from Blue Line season opener stuff on Thursday because, well, I am who I am) but if you'd like to know what I have written/want to read it, shoot me a message on Tumblr and I'll be more than happy to send you the Google link. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


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